From Stage Dives to Station Wagons

A Very Belated Birthday Post

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 23:05:00 +0000

My precious seven-year-old Little Dog,
I usually post these right around the time you age up, but this year, as you well know, has been a bit of an ass-kicker. I'm running behind because this year I never seem to stop running.

I am sick of saying that I can't believe you are a year older already, but honestly I can't. When you were decorating the Christmas tree in December I remember being struck by how tall you were and each day I watch your beautiful face continue on its transformation from adorable chubby baby face to handsome big kid. Only when you are asleep do you still resemble the infant I brought home seven years ago, and it is all I can to to see that sleeping face and not lean over to immediately kiss your cheek.

We've had our share of challenges this year as your worries continue to hijack that sweet kid spirit at times when you feel stressed or overwhelmed, but we keep working our way down the path to finding a lasting solution. It hasn't been easy for you, or for us, but I sincerely believe that this year will end on a much happier, calmer note than it began. Just hold my hand and keep moving forward with me, sweetie.

And even with the challenges you continue to grow and amaze. Your vocabulary continues to flourish, you seem to collect words the way Big Dog collects Bey Blades or Pokemon cards. You cherish them, polish them and use them expertly. It is a love I recognize in myself as well as in your grandma and I couldn't be more proud.

While you are loathe to show it, you can read and do math, but you'd rather not. Your love is video games. Skylanders to be precise. I think you love the possibility of the characters as much as the game, but you do immerse yourself in that world.

You have an great sense of humor that constantly catches me off guard. You turn phrases in ways that make me giggle and frequently post your observations or retorts in my Facebook status. In fact, you have gained quite a reputation in my social circle as a smart and funny guy with a sharp wit and a keen eye. My pride in you shines through as I write or talk about you every day.

Through the year we are going try to work through some problems for you, and I imagine at times it will be tough for all of us. We may cry, we may argue, we may wallow in our frustration, but at the heart of it all please know I love you more than you could ever imagine. As we grow together I promise I will try to offset the aggravation with joy, balance the struggle with fun and naturally fill in the bumps with chocolate.

I love you, Little Dog. You are your own original creation.

Happy Birthday Big Nine

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 16:16:00 +0000

So Big Dog, you've turned nine. Each year I am once again surprised how quickly the birthday comes up again and each year I look at you with pride in what a great kid I'm raising. You are sweet and smart, kind and funny. I couldn't be more proud.

In the past year you've continued to become a big kid, less dependent on us for security, more comfortable in your own skin. You have surrounded yourself with a nice group of friends and I'm proud that they are really nice kids that seem to build each other up. Your closest friend has a big influence on you and you talk about him so much it is like he is another member of our family. At the same time, you have maintained a closeness with your best buddy from kindergarten that makes me smile since this is a time where boys often stop being close friends with girls.

At times you struggle with big emotions, frustration and a temper that is more than a little familiar to me. We have started down the path of the battles of the wills at times too. I though I had a few more years before I dealt with this on a regular basis, but the teenager in you seems to be peeking through more and more.

This year you've continued with your Bey Blade obsession and we've added Skylanders to the mix. Both of these are very social for you, Bey Blades with your friends at school and Sklyanders with your brother. Legos are still a lot of fun, but you tend more toward the kits than freely building.

At school you still love math and you tend toward reading non-fiction more than stories that interest your peers. You have a great teacher again this year and he thinks the world of you. You still look forward to school, though recently stomach aches in the mornings make me wonder if this is likely to change over the course of the year.

While you've played soccer this year both at camp and in the youth league, you seem to be tiring of it. I wonder if you'll play again next year or what new interest will fill you time. You still love to play but getting you to games or practice is becoming more of a challenge as you have other things you'd like to have fill your time.

Big Dog, you are amazing. I see so much of myself in you and at the same time you are completely your own person. I still remember the tiny newborn you were when I first held you in my arms and I can't believe that was a full 9 years ago. I look forward to seeing what each new year brings. I love you more than I could ever have imagined.

Scenes from a Starbucks

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Fri, 01 Jun 2012 14:00:00 +0000

"It's too bad you're a girl," Little Dog said after we'd placed our order at the counter.
"Really? Why's that. I'm pretty happy being a girl," I replied.
"Well, because you're not lucky enough to be a boy. Boys can do everything. Girls can't. Too bad you don't get to be a boy."
From his tone, I could tell he wasn't really feeling sorry for me, he was trying to lord his supposed gender superiority over me. I'm not sure where he gets this from, but I find it obnoxious if not entirely age appropriate.
"Girls can do pretty much everything boys can do, you know," I reminded him. "In fact, we can do some things boys can never do!"
"No you can't!" he protested, then overcome by curiosity he just had to ask, "Like what?"
"I can make a baby. In fact, I made you!" I said, "Boys can't do that."
"Nope, she's right," the man behind the counter agree, grinning at this whole exchange.
Little Dog looked up at me, eyes wide. Then he collapsed. His back against the espresso counter, he slid down to a seated position as he howled, "Don't mock me." Then his eyes filled with tears and he cried, big fat very real tears. And I felt terrible despite having only told him the truth.
"Sweetie, come on now. You're amazing," he silently let me move him away from the counter where I could try again to cheer him.
"You know," I said "Girls aren't better than boys because we can do special things. Boys and girls each bring something special to the party. There are things boys can do that girls can't."
"Really?" he asked, his voice brightening only slightly.
"Yes. I promise."
"Like what?" he asked.
"Well, boys can pee standing up. Girls can't do that." I offered, thinking this might strike the right tone for this little boy.
"Really?" he said, his cloud immediately lifting.
"Yep. I mean, we could, but we'd mostly end up peeing all over our feet. No aim."
"But it's so easy!" he said, eyes clear and sparkling again, that smugness of his earlier line of talk returning. And then, as if on cue, "It's so sad you're not a boy. Boys can do everything!"

Not exactly according to plan

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Thu, 31 May 2012 04:12:00 +0000

Today I went on a field trip with Big Dog's class. He's been complaining that I spend a lot of time with Little Dog's class and not much time with his class. And if I was seeing things from his perspective, he'd be absolutely right, so I needed to fix that. Today's field trip was a half day trip to the Seattle Tilth to learn about gardening. Not far from work, not a full day and on a day where my schedule was pretty easily rearranged, it sounded just about perfect. I dropped the boys off at school in the morning, went to work for a few hours, then headed over the the school to meet up with the class.

With several other parent chaperons and a teacher, who I believe is among the finest teachers I have ever had the pleasure of meeting (he's truly amazing!) we managed to herd 23 eight-year-olds from school, to the bus stop, on and off of the Seattle Metro bus and into the playground near the Good Shepherd Center where the Seattle Tilth is located. Upon our arrival, the kids were told to find a seat at the picnic tables and eat their lunches after which they would have a little time to play before heading to our class. They had barely cracked into their lunches when a man approached the group and asked us to please collect up our lunches and follow him. To the adults he mentioned that he was the principal of the Meridian school, a private school in the same center as the Seattle Tilth, and that the school was currently under lockdown at the request of the Seattle police. He asked us to come with him quickly to the gym where our group would be safe and would be able to observe the lockdown as guests of their school.

The children packed up with amazing speed despite having no idea (or anxiety because they had no details) about what was going on. We ushered them into the gym in an orderly line and we locked the doors behind us. We settled in to finish our lunches and as we waited the principal asked for a few of the adults to come into the hallway so he could explain the situation without upsetting the children. If you were in Seattle today, you probably already know what happened. A man entered a local cafe and opened fire, killing two people on the scene and injuring three more. He then fled, still armed, into the neighborhood, which was not terribly far from where we were standing. The public schools in the area were all on lockdown, the police were conducting a door to door search of the area, and we were here in the gym of a private school waiting for more information.

I don't know if you've even been through a lock down or even a lockdown drill, I sure hadn't. In a lockdown, you just sit quietly and wait with the doors locked, windows closed and a furious anxiety raging through all of the adults. You can't play, you can't make noise, you can't even talk. You just wait. Quietly. Until they tell you that you can stop. The kids managed it exceptionally well. Someone brought in books for them to read and others played silent games of Rock, Scissors, Paper while the parents all sat, focused on their smartphones either texting our spouses about our safety or constantly hitting reload trying to get new details from the outside that would help us feel safer. I don't know about the other parents, but whenever someone knocked on the door, I jumped. I couldn't help but obsess over what would happen if someone did get into the school, how would I keep my child safe and how would Dave and Little Dog handle the situation if something did happen. I looked for things that we could hide behind and considered the safety of our position relative to the windows should shots be fired from outside. And I waited. Needless to say, the waiting was excruciating.

After a while, someone from the Seattle Tilth came to into the gym and started a very quiet introduction to the gardening program to help pass the waiting time. The children were all exceptionally well focused and gave polite but enthusiastic answers to his questions. A few minutes into the presentation, we were given the all clear. The police had lifted the lockdown in this area and we were able to resume our regular schedule. The children, who had all behaved so well, were allowed to have 10 minutes on the playground and then we all learned a bit about gardening and worms.

The shooter was found much later in an entirely different neighborhood, the dead were identified and the life for the rest of Seattle went on. I'm still shaking.

If Wishes Were Horses

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Thu, 17 May 2012 08:15:00 +0000

"It's too bad kids can't have drivers licenses," Little Dog says in the back seat as we drive from his after school program to pick Big Dog up from his after school program.
"Yeah, it's a tragedy," I say thinking of just what kind of insurance that would require and the rather terrifying idea of Little Dog piloting a vehicle.
"I wish I had a horse," he says abruptly.
"A horse?" I ask, pretty sure I've misunderstood.
"A horse," he says firmly.
"You want to ride a horse? We could do that sometime," I say.
"I'd ride it to school."
"Well, I'm pretty sure we don't have enough space for a horse in our yard, but it's a nice idea," I say.
"We should check. I'd like to ride a horse to school. I could do it every day."
"Well there would be things we'd need to think about other than just the space, which I'm pretty sure we don't have. What would the horse do while you were in school?" I ask.
"Poop. It would probably poop."
"Yeah," I say, "And that's not all."
"It would have to wait. But it could also poop," he says, more sure this time.
"Don't you think it would get bored? It would just have to stand there and wait for you all day. Wouldn't it want to do something else?" I ask.
"It could poop," he says again, obviously something he's quite committed to. Then after a pause, "Would it want to run around in circles? It could probably do that too."
"I think it might be in the way. I'm not sure your school would be too happy about having a horse just hanging around."
"You're right. Probably because of all of the poop," he says as though he's figured it out. Again he is quiet. "It's too bad kids can't have drivers licenses."
Uh yeah. Sure it is. But apart from the obvious drawbacks, we'd also miss out on quality conversations like these.

Preparation

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 16 May 2012 17:18:00 +0000

This morning I spent an hour in Little Dog's classroom as a guest for "Show and Share" the modern, more inclusive version of "Show and Tell." This month, Little Dog's class assignment was to tell the story of how they got the children got their names. Children were allowed to bring a parent to tell the story if they wanted, and Little Dog did. He is not much of a public speaker apparently. The idea of retelling the story himself made him anxious, and since I also dislike speaking in front of groups of my peers, I agreed to come help him out.

Show and Share is run a bit like the Donahue show (yes, I'm dating myself). A speaker is introduced, they tell their story and then they are peppered with questions from the students in the class. Apart from the running of the microphone to questioning audience members (the speaker keeps the microphone in this class) and the maturity level of the program content, this could be a rehashing of Phil's better days.

When the time came, I was handed the wireless mic, I explained the origin of his name and why Mr. Dog and I opted for a name that was not very common. I told the class a little bit about the person he is named after and why he was important to us. The class listened quietly while Little Dog beamed with pride.

After the "showing"part of the exercise, we moved on to the "sharing." This is where the kids get to raise their hands and ask questions about the presentation. Little Dog took the mic and called on his classmates one by one, passing the mic back to me after calling on each name and taking it back once I had answered.
"Did you fight over the names?" asked one little girl who seemed at least a little disappointed when I said we did not.
"What is his middle and last name?" another child asked, and I answered.
"What is his brother's middle name?" yet another child asked.
"Do you like his name?" another boy asked, as though I had been forced to name him against my better judgement.

As we worked our way through the sea of little hands raised patiently to ask questions, we hit more than one who forgot what they were going to ask. Some of the kids were prepared, asking sensible questions, others were not. We got many duplicate questions and a few who asked things that I'd explained when I told the original story or had just been answered. In fact, several of the kids seemed to ask questions just to hear themselves speak. As I looked around the room, I realized that in many ways, this was much like the meetings I attend all day at work. I guess schools really are preparing kids for the modern workplace.

Pressing Pause

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 15 May 2012 00:36:00 +0000

Ferris Bueller had it right. "Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." Yep, that just about sums things up. I'm sure I'm not telling you anything you don't already know, and if you are looking for a post chock full of novel insights into parenting and life, feel free to abandon this one right now. I won't be offended.

The thing is that my life has been cruising right along lately. Especially the past few months, I've been so worried about everything that might go wrong, or needs to be dealt with or prepared for, I've more or less stopped thinking about what is. I focus on getting through things, look forward to the end of a phase or wait for the next month to bring something new. I worry about all of the little issues that crop up, blow them out of proportion and fail to recognize the important things that are dropping along the wayside. Maybe it's that I turned 40 this year, maybe it's that my job can be as overwhelming as I let it be if I have no stops in place. Or maybe it's that all of us are doing too much in too little time which becomes a pretty addictive rush if you never take a break to put things back in the proper proportions.

Over the past few weeks I've been confronted with a number of events that have made me stop and reevaluate. A friend's child facing life changing surgery, the death of a friend's beloved family pet, the illness of another, a coworker's child with a mystery illness and another young and vibrant life cut short by a particularly aggressive form of cancer. Add to that friends worrying out the complex details of relationship, aging and careers. All of this keeps coming in on what feels like unrelenting waves. It is enough to stun me into a bit of introspection.

And guess what, when put into perspective, my life is really freakin' good. My kids are healthy and smart, even if they are a bit challenging at times (wonder where they get that from?). My marriage is strong, if at times somewhat neglected. I have a family that is loving and not at all dysfunctional, who give me endless support and no judgement. My friendships are enduring and energizing, even if we all admit that distance can increase the need for scheduled check ins. Even my career is solid and I mostly love my job despite feeling the need to force a bit of new growth. Yes, I deal with speed bumps from time to time, but like all speed bumps they are disruptive but temporary. And if I heed them, they might even make me take time to slow down and look around once in a while, which is actually a good thing since I'd really hate to miss it.

Don't Stop Believing (They're trying to drive you crazy!)

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 14 May 2012 04:44:00 +0000

Anyone who hates Journey, as I do, should be given the opportunity to listen to your kids belt out "Don't Stop Believing" in the back seat of the car on a sunny day in Seattle. It won't make you love Steve Perry, but the little voices singing about the "small town girl, living in a lonely world" is overwhelmingly sweet and the sunshine is making you giddy as you drive near the water watching the boats. It might even make you comply with their demands to turn it up. And if it is a summer day in Seattle, you'll probably have the windows down. You might turn it up a bit to appease your tiny singers, but soon they'll demand again, "Turn it up, mama!" and maybe, if you're like me, you'll say something like, "Hey, the windows are down and I don't want people to get the wrong idea. I'm way too cool for Journey. This is your thing." But they'll persist and maybe you'll be sucked into turning it up a bit more. And then that last demand will come, in my case, from Little Dog, "Turn it up, really crank it up, mama!" And you'll ask, "Why? Do you really love Journey so much?" to which he'll reply, "No! I want to humiliate you! They'll all think you love it!" followed by a wicked cackle. Or maybe that's just my kids. Hard to know.

Three for one

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 14 Mar 2012 05:40:00 +0000

The other morning I arrived in my office exhausted. Who am I kidding, most every morning I arrive exhausted, flop down into my desk chair with a cup of coffee and let out a big sigh of relief. Relief that I have survived the first of my three-in-one days. See, I, like most working mothers, manage to fit the work of three days into a single 24 hour period. It's like magic except that it isn't a trick and it just takes every bit of energy I can muster. And then, instead of applause at the end of the amazing feat, my grand accomplishment is celebrated with me flopping into bed and breathing a sigh of relief for having survived the third of my three-in-one day. Let me explain.

Until the other morning, I didn't have a concept of a three-in-one day. I just thought of it as, well, being really really tired. So that morning, having flopped into my office chair with my cup of coffee and my second conference call already in progress, let out my sigh of relief, I logged into Facebook and posted this. "by the time I get to work, I usually feel like I have already done a full day of chores." And pretty much immediately my mom friends responded. The one that resonated was from geekymummy, she wrote "Because you have. I feel the same. I have three days every day." Thus was born the idea of a three-in-one.

Here's how mine works. I start my morning with my good wife/mother day. I wake up. I start the coffee and unload the dishwasher. I then pack lunches for the boys and, if I'm being particularly efficient, I'll pack lunches for Mr. Dog and myself too. Once the coffee is made, I fix a cup for me and bring a cup into the bedroom to wake Mr. Dog. I take the veggie and fruit trimmings from making the lunches out to the chickens, and if the dogs aren't too settled in front of the heaters, I take the dogs out with me for them to do what dogs do first thing in the morning (and yes, we all know what it is). If I'm making good time, I'll throw a load of laundry into the washer, cold wash only so I don't use up the hot water for my shower. Once lunches are safely stowed in the boys' backpacks, I swing by the bed to remind Mr. Dog that he does actually have to get out of bed in order for it to qualify as getting up and then I jump in the shower. If I'm lucky, and I usually am, Mr. Dog gets up and wakes the boys. One of us makes breakfast for the kids, we get their clothes out and nag them until they are dressed, fed and ready to head to school. Frequently, I have will call into my first conference call of the day before we leave the house. Getting them to the car takes a fair amount of cajoling, but if I see the kids at the corner waiting for the school bus, I know we are not running too late. My boys don't go to our neighborhood school, so the bus is not an option for us. I drive the boys to school, picking up late passes in the office if our morning routine was running behind, deliver Little Dog to his classroom then make the drive to the office. Once I'm in my office, probably still in a conference call on my mobile, I flop into my office chair and day one ends.

Day two is my day of being a successful manager at a large software company. I make sure my projects are on schedule, my staff is happy and well directed, I put out many urgent but purely metaphorical fires and help our business run smoothly. I'm good at this. It is not always paradise, but it is fulfilling and I enjoy the work that I do, which is good because it is usually pretty hectic and I spend a lot of time running from meeting to meeting dealing with a seemingly non-stop parade of things that need to be done right now despite the fact that other things were scheduled to be done in the time I am now using to solve this new crop of problems. Depending on the day of the week, I leave the office in time to either pick the boys up from their after school programs or get to my Pilates class on time. Once I slide into the driver's seat of my station wagon, I breath a second sigh of relief for surviving my second day of my three-in-one (though frequently I bring work home with me in the evening because working in an international company means co-workers working round the clock in other time zones). I flip on the radio and listen to the news on NPR as I begin my third.

My third day begins with either with the escape of Pilates or the bustling of children from after school program into the car and then home. This day is the one dedicated to family togetherness. Once safely home, the kitchen is re-tidied from the breakfast making to clear space for evening meal preparation. With the boys in the living room, I make dinner. We eat, make sure homework is complete then there is a short time for relaxation with the family. Bedtime for the boys is preceded by tooth brushing, bathing if it happens to be bath night, glasses of water and reminders to use the toilet before they get into bed because they like to stall the actual process of going to sleep with demands for beverages and trips to the bathroom. On alternating nights, Mr. Dog or I am responsible for actually getting the kids to bed and to sleep. This starts with reading time (where they read to us) then story time (where we read to them) and then finally sleep. While one parent tends to the children, the other is allowed some quiet time though frequently this becomes time used to clean the kitchen and then take the dogs out for the last time in the evening. By the time this is done, there is usually about enough time for me to stick the last few dishes into the dishwasher and set it to run as I head off to sleep. I flop into bed after my own nightly face washing and tooth brushing routine, giving my third sigh of the evening. And then there is just barely enough sleep to get me set up to do it again tomorrow.

Six Years

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 15:35:00 +0000

I'm posting this a few days after your birthday this year, not for any lack of love or admiration, but really because this seems to be the kind of year it has been. Nothing coming right on time, an extra helping of chaos and not enough time to do the things we want or need to do, no matter how important they are.

Well, Little Dog, another year has passed and once again I'm wishing you yet another happy birthday. As I type this I realized pretty soon I'm going to need to quit calling you "Little Dog" except maybe in the ironic way the biggest guy at school gets nicknamed "Tiny." You are growing by leaps and bounds, long and lanky already, I see visions of the future where your frame dwarfs papa and me. Most people react with surprised when they hear you are just now six. Not only are you tall for your age, you are very verbal, your vocabulary and ability to turn a phrase is not like other kindergartners I've met. Paired with your cynical humor, it can be hard to believe you are as young as you are. It's pretty amazing. And yet, this is not without a downside. You often get mistaken for being older and the expectations of that more advanced age are imposed upon you even as you work through the milestones appropriate for your own age. It must be so frustrating for you.

And I've seen this frustration in action. Not just with the unfair expectations, but with your inability to control the world around you. You seem to have a little steam in your system at all time that just waits for the right circumstance to boil over. Stress or disappointment can turn your cheerful self into a tornado of chaos that can be hard to manage. You've worked hard on coping skills, and at times you manage it so gracefully, even to the point of helping others cope with their own frustrations, but if too much is up in the air those skills seem to elude you. It is hard to watch at times, but I've been assured it is completely normal and as you learn more about yourself you'll gain more control. I know, I remember being there myself as a kid, and perhaps that is why it pains me to watch you navigate that same course.

But let's not let the bumpy parts eclipse the amazing. And button, you are certainly that. Amazing. Your are naturally athletic, managing to jump and leap and twist with such fluidity that even just taking a walk can seem like a display of gymnastic skill. While you may not love team sports, or at least not the losing part of competitions, you seem to pick up the basic skills quickly and with such grace. As an ungainly and clumsy person, I often just watch and smile.

You are not always excited about traditional learning, practice repetitions of basic skills are perhaps a bit too slow, but any kind of experiment turns your mind on. Science, art, even cooking lights you up as you make combinations and test your theories. You've decided against a career as a spy and now want to be a scientist. Though when I explained that becoming a scientist takes many years of schools on a day you told me you had more or less already had enough of the daily school routine, you balked. In fact, your response was, "I don't want to be a regular scientist! I want to be a mad scientist!" as though there were different qualifications for that chosen profession.

You have a strong sense of justice. Playing fair is important to you, well, unless you are the one taking the unfair advantage. You want rules applied evenly and will probably struggle with this for a long time to come as the world is an unfair place. As much as people should do the right thing, they often don't and you can't take the responsibility for bringing them all in line. It is too big a job for one kid.

No matter how big you get, you have not yet lost your love of cuddling. You melt right into my arms, head against my shoulder in a way that just fills my heart with warmth. It defies words. As you grow it gets harder to hold you on my lap, but that doesn't deter us from trying. You are my baby no matter how your physical size may try to contradict it.

Six years ago I took my first look into your dreamy blue eyes and fell so deeply in love with you. I've been crazy for you ever since. Happy birthday, big guy. I love you always.

Life on a treadmill

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 19:30:00 +0000

Lately the boys have both been mildly obsessed with fitness. While sitting in a waiting room, Little Dog picked up a copy of Men's Health and told me he wanted to look like one of the guys photographed shirtless to show off his bulging muscles. "I want to be a muscle man. I'm going to need some weights," he told me. And this has been mentioned several times since. Big Dog has been similarly interested in hitting the gym and getting in his exercise as part of a new fitness points system his gym teacher introduced. It is all kind of amusing, and I hope that if they express this interest now they'll be better at establishing more lasting fitness practices than I have as grew up. Setting new healthier lifestyle practices gets a lot harder as you get older. Or so I have discovered.

See, recently I've been trying to get myself on a better track. While I was on sabbatical this fall, I doing Pilates at a local studio. It has become an obsession. At the same time, I reintroduced running to my routine. I've made several attempts to get back into running over the past year, but have never been 100% successful. The thing is that I don't like to run outside. I prefer a treadmill. And if I restrict myself to a treadmill, I have to find time to hit the gym. That isn't quite as easy as it should be. If I try to use the gym at work, I have to shower and get dressed before returning to work, and that paired with my busy meeting schedule and the fact that some of my co-workers don't have any issues with scheduling meetings right over the traditional lunch hour makes it pretty easy to put off. If I try to use the treadmills at the YMCA, I have to go when the kids can go the the childcare area and depending on the mood of my more tempestuous younger son, that doesn't always work out. It also means that we are limited to weekends since trying to get to and from the gym after work makes for a crazy day. And let's not forget that I don't actually love running. It is just an efficient method to get some exercise. I don't get the runner's high and I don't run for the pure joy of running, so if it isn't convenient, I don't find myself properly motivated to make it happen.

The solution was easy. Get a treadmill at home. If it is right here more or less staring at me, I'll be more likely to use it. And it has been true more or less. What I didn't bank on was the boys catching treadmill fever. Last weekend as the boys watched TV, I slipped downstairs for a run. I had almost finished when Little Dog came into the bedroom.
"Can I have a turn?" he asked.
"Sure, just let me finish," I said, expecting that he'd give it a minute, get bored and that would be that.

I was wrong. He got on and ran. And ran and ran. He'd occasionally switch from running into a glee-filled skipping and hopping pattern. He worked up a little sweat and when he finally decided to stop, I told him he could Big Dog and let him have a turn if he wanted. And boy did he ever.
Big Dog chose a more traditional running gait, but he kept demanding that I push up the speed. Then it became competitive. They wanted to be the faster runner of the two. They wanted to run longer than the other. They were loving it.

Last night after listening to the boys beat each other senseless as brothers often do, Mr. Dog suggested they go for a run on the treadmill. They were giddy. Again, the joyful running and brotherly competition kept they busy and tired them right out. They may have the goal of getting "super fit" and having "lots and lots of muscles" but my goal is simply to tire them out. If they happen to get all muscled up in the process, I'll count that as a happy byproduct. And maybe a tiny bit of their excited running enthusiasm can rub off on their old mom.

Big Brother

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 20:27:00 +0000

And by Big Brother, I don't mean the kind that watches over you, just the kind that tortures you if you happen to be the younger child. In our house, that's Big Dog. But in this house, Big Dog is at a bit of a disadvantage. Both Mr. Dog and I have older siblings so we have repeatedly warned Big Dog that we are familiar with the special kind of abuse younger siblings receive from older siblings. It may not be physical, but usually it ends up with someone getting thumped. Thinking back on my childhood, I remember vividly long series of irritations that pushed me to my limit and ended up with me punching my sister then getting punished for hitting while she, as the victim of my brutality, sat smugly by watching her plan come cleanly together. I have promised as a mother that, while I will not support the thumping of an annoying older sibling, when it comes time for punishment, the annoyer will be treated with the same level of seriousness as the annoyee. Last night I realized that the era of torment is in full swing in our house.

See, last night we had dinner with friends at their house. While they have moved since last time we'd visited, their household is known for having cats. Cute, furry, lovable cats. It made it easy to motivate the boys to get their shoes on and get out the door for an on time arrival.
"Little Dog, come put on your shoes."
"No!"
"Don't you want to see the kitties?"
And suddenly there he was slipping on his boots.

"Let's go to the car."
"Wait, I just want to do one more thing..."
"Don't you wand to see the kitties?"
And there both boys were, ready to rush out the door.

We had dinner, and later the boys played with their new DS games while the adults sat at the table talking. It was so civilized (well, apart from the technology related meltdowns and a few sibling issues, but let's ignore those and pretend it was all perfect loveliness since our hosts didn't seem at all upset by the outbursts.) At one point, Little Dog's DS ran out of batteries, so I let him play games on my iPhone to keep him happy.

As they started to get cranky, we decided it was time to take the ~~beasts~~ boys home and said our thanks for the dinner and conversation. In our somewhat disorganized effort to get out of the house, Little Dog left his DS on the floor.

We were no more than 5 minutes away when Big Dog called it out. "Where is Little Dog's DS?"
I looked in my pockets, Mr. Dog did the same and we realized that it was left behind.
"I'll call them tomorrow and pick it up for you. Don't worry." I assured him, but clearly that was not enough. Little Dog, who was already tired and overly emotional, started to wail. Tomorrow was too long. Why couldn't I just get it now? He couldn't possibly spend the rest of the evening, which mostly consisted of going to sleep, without it. And he started to spin up into a bit of a tantrum. Back in the world of reality, by the time I got home, I'd already received an email from our friends saying they had the DS and we could come pick it up in the morning, no problem.

Once we were home and my efforts to soothe Little Dog were showing some positive effect, Big Dog stepped in.

"I sure hope the cats don't eat your DS, Little Dog." Little Dog wails.
"The cats won't eat a DS. Stop it," I warned.
A pause, then another jab.

"I hope the cats won't scratch your DS up, Little Dog." Another wail from Little Dog.
"The cats have no interest in the DS. Mike has the DS. I'm sure it's safe. I'll get it in the morning."
A pause, then a new approach.

"I sure hope they didn't knock out the game cartridge. It sure would be a bummer if you lost your game, Little Dog."
"Stop it. Be quiet. One more word about the possible demise of the DS and I'll give him yours."
"But he still wouldn't have his game. Would you Little Dog?"
Now I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't just messing with Little Dog this time. And I'm not even his younger sibling.

Family, our way

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 17:34:00 +0000

This time of year my Facebook feed is filled with photos of families doing holiday appropriate activities. Children dressed up for the annual trip to the ballet, in mud boots for the great Christmas tree hunt, in aprons baking up holiday cookies and bundled up in the snow or on ice skates savoring the winter sports. A lot of family portraits are being posted with everyone spiffed up and smiling. Some are professionally taken, other are snapshots of everyone gathered around the tree wishing us all a Merry Christmas. Seeing this constant stream of holiday perfection can make me feel like maybe I don't take this whole family thing seriously enough. Maybe we aren't really making an effort to have all of those picture perfect family moments or maybe it's just that frequently our moments are more frenzied and less photo ready.

Sometimes I look at these photos and start to worry that we aren't doing enough, then I stop and remember that I actually know the people in these photos and for every Christmas card quality photo they post, there was probably at least one child meltdown or sibling battle that wasn't documented for mass consumption. I can pretty safely assume the trip to the ballet was preceded by a long period of maternal nagging to brush hair or put on shoes and there is a good chance there was a fair amount of cussing as the family, immortalized as perfect in the photo, cruised the parking lot looking for a place to stow the car in time to rush to the performance before the curtain went up. This smiling child on skis was probably up at the crack of dawn disturbing the parents' slumber long before any sane person is ready to rise and possibly refused to eat any of the breakfast that they requested but then rejected because the edges of the pancakes were too brown or the egg yolks were too runny.

As deceptive as the photos can be, there are no perfect families. Trust me. That revelation is liberating. As soon as I let that go, I can more easily appreciate the oddness and chaos of my own kith and kin. We may have some photo perfect moments, but those are frequently surrounded by Little Dog decorating his body with bold designs drawn in marker probably predicting some future disposition to tattoos. The best smiles in our snapshots were often achieved not by saying "cheese" but "underpants," the word that seems to constantly amuse these little men. There is no trip to the ballet for our boys, yet, but the exuberant dancing to grandpa's choice of Christmas music is really more our speed, even if we are told "Don't look at us!"as soon as we start watching the performance, (but we do, just more covertly).

Some of our best family bonding may be centered around the new batch of apps grandpa downloaded for the boys, including the one that makes giant fart noises that were followed by the squealing laughter of my small monsters. We may not have made holiday cookies, but the boys did have some sort of competitive crafting event going in the kitchen at grandma's house. Each time a family member was given a finished item from one boy, the other would rush back to the work table to furiously create another item for the same person. By the end of the first evening, I was the proud owner of about a half dozen book marks and a small zoo of pom pom animals with a varying number of eyes.

We have Santa photos, but how many other families have the special holiday memory of their 5 year-old poking Santa's belly to "see how jolly he was". Well we do. And trust me, I'll cherish that memory for years to come, even is Santa was somewhat less enthusiastic about the event. We'll also remember Big Dog's impassioned lobbying that perhaps this year, instead of opening presents on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning, we could open all of the presents on Christmas Eve morning. Though he was unsuccessful in attaining his goal, we may well have a future lawyer on our hands. Let's just hope he uses his powers for good, not evil.

We'll weather the sibling battles, the potty talk, the occasional yelling and in the end the memories that float to the top, the ones that persist, will be nearly as picture perfect as those in my Facebook feed.

What passes for romance these days

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 04:06:00 +0000

Tonight I had my Pilates class and made it home a few minutes before Mr. Dog walked in with the boys. As we all took off our shoes and coats we kind of gathered up in the entryway. Big Dog, free of his shoes, bolted upstairs to play and Little Dog was still working on his freeing his feet from his sneakers. As Mr. Dog brushed past me in the narrow space, I said, "What's up, yo?" because, yes, I'm street like that. And he replied, "What up with you, you?"
His voice thick with distaste, Little Dog piped in, "Why do you guys have to always be so lovey-dovey?" and took off up the stairs, leaving us laughing in his wake.
"Really? That's lovey-dovey now?" I asked Mr. Dog.
And as soon as it was out of my mouth, our small critic's voice drifted down from the stairwell, "Ug. You disgust me." And he stomped away.
I didn't realize that my faux urban posturing could be mistaken as the language of love. I guess you really do learn something new every day.

The verdict is in

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 04:22:00 +0000

And thankfully it is not a death sentence. The garage called and the Passat is able to be saved. Turns out by getting off the freeway immediately I managed to prevent damage to the engine. After a thorough cleaning and an oil change, they expect they'll have it back to me tomorrow. And they're fixing the back hatch too. So I don't need to immediately replace my car, which is good news. I have time to think and plan, just the way I like. Life is good.

And then there are things that I'm less thankful for...

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 18:13:00 +0000

So after a pretty perfect Thanksgiving with my family, we headed home. Packed the kids and the bags and the very big dogs into our two cars and said goodbye to our family. I never like the feeling of driving away from my parents but I do love the feeling of arriving home, especially if I have the foresight to tidy up before we leave. But that didn't happen quite as normally planned this time. See, we'd been dreading the traffic since our drive down took twice as long as usual. And as it turns out the traffic was light, the boys were well behaved and about two and a half hours into the drive we were seeing signs indicating we were just 20 minutes from home. And that's when it happened. The console started blinking "STOP" in bright red letters and a little alarm sounded a screaming kind of burst to let me know I needed to immediately pull my car to the shoulder. The oil light also blinked at me in time with my turn signal as I maneuvered to the side of the road.

Mr. Dog pulled up behind me and called to ask what was going on. I offered a brief if somewhat short-tempered and slightly shrieking explanation and he left his car and came up along side the car. We popped the hood and checked the oil level. It was on the low side of things, but not seriously so. We added a bit to bring it to a more standard level and we waited a few minutes. Mr. Dog walked back to his car, then came back. I wasn't sure what he was doing, but I also am unaccustomed to unplanned car malfunctions so I didn't really think much when he appeared at my passenger-side window. Turns out when he left his car to come to my aid, he made sure his door was secured. Unfortunately he did so with his keys inside the car. And let's not forget that the dogs were both in the backseat. Unsure what to do next we discussed calling a locksmith. How long would it take? What if we took a very long time and we all had to sit on the shoulder in the cars until they arrived? And how much would that cost? In our somewhat compromised judgement, we decided it would be quicker and probably cost about the same (or even less) if he just broke the window. It wasn't until he was mid-break when it dawned on me that I could probably call the police and get the door opened, but obviously that was too late.

With the window glass smashed and keys retrieved, we had one problem solved, one to go. We decided to see if my car had been soothed by the addition of oil. When I started the station wagon up, the alarm was gone, but as I started to pull forward, it started again. I immediately stopped, uttered some choice words which I'm sure the boys will be repeating at school and accepted our situation. I called a tow truck and began to sink deeper into my panic.

I was not sure what is going on with my car, but felt strongly that if the car decides it is necessary to scream at me, chances are the news isn't good. So as we stood on the hill near the shoulder waiting for our tow I started to google the symptoms on my ever-present iPhone. I was right. Turns out VW Passat's have a nasty design flaw that can lead to oil sludge problems and these problems can lead to expensive engine repairs or in some cases engine failure. There's even an official recall on oil sludge related damage. If you have properly documented receipts for your oil changes at intervals of no more than 5,000 miles, VW will pay for the resulting damage including a full replacement of the engine if necessary. But you need to have the documentation. And I don't. It's not that I don't have my car's oil changed regularly, it's that I stopped going to the dealership for this service after being overcharged on one occasion and nearly charged for hours of labor diagnosing a nonexistent electrical problem that was actually just a blown out headlight (that was later correctly diagnosed when I brought the car back and happened to be assigned a different service adviser). After the breach of trust, I started taking my car for oil changes at those smaller local, drive in, oil change and drive out kind of places. And I don't think I've gone to the same one twice. And I know I've chucked the receipts, because who in the world would be interested in my oil changes when I plan on essentially driving this car until eternity or the car turns to dust in my hands as I drive. So in other words, if it is an oil sludge issue, I'm screwed. I've resigned myself to this.

If I've ever doubted that either of my children had a melodramatic side, all doubt was removed as we waited. Big Dog, in a weepy dread-filled voice that "I don't want to die," then later, "I guess this is better than being killed," and "I'm so happy that we all survived." Little Dog began panicked pleas for his stuffed hippo toy who was left in the car because poor little Hippo was terrified and lonely. He also began randomly screaming short, sharp screams completely unprovoked. And because this clearly was not enough, as we stood on the other side of the of road that ran along side the freeway and up the small embankment hill from our cars, Dashiell, our great Dane, decided he'd rather be with us than waiting in the stranded vehicle and started to try to climb his way our of the broken window. Mr. Dog had to quickly, but cautiously, rush back to the car to secure him to the seat with his leash so he would remain safely in place until we were rescued from our plight.

I was largely unable to sleep last night and instead stayed up late reading everything I could about the 2004 Passat oil sludge issues and possible outcomes. I then went on to investigating what cars might be suitable replacements for the Passat if it did end up being a fatal injury. All of this has left me feeling very stressed and at loose ends. See, I'm a planner by nature. I'd planned on that car lasting at least until it was 10 years old. I'd held up my end of the maintenance and assumed that combined with the low mileage, I could ensure it would. According to my plan, I had a couple of years to decide what the next car would be. How big, what make, which model were all things I hadn't really thought much about. And now I'm having to decide just what kind of car is going to be with us for the next 10 years. All I have absolutely decided at this point is that it sure as hell isn't going to be another Volkswagen. Sorry guys, I think this is how we break up. Though right now I'm feeling kind of thankful that the back hatch mechanism was broken, forcing us to caravan to Portland in two cars. I can only imagine that the kind and helpful tow truck driver might have felt a bit more put out if we had to pack two adults, two children and two large dogs into the cab of his truck.

And if you have any great ideas about what the next car should be, please let me know. I'm compiling a list of what I need to investigate and test drive. Even if this isn't the end of the Passat, it certainly is a warning call. As I posted on facebook earlier "putting it out there to all of you... if you had to start thinking about replacing your station wagon, had two kids (who just keep on growing) and two dogs but didn't want to drive a car the size of a small apartment but came from a family of long legged people, and cared about fuel economy, what kind of car would you be looking at?"

No, thank YOU!

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 17:25:00 +0000

Despite the rain and traffic that turned our 3 hour drive to Portland into a 6 hour trek, and despite the malfunctioning hatch mechanism on the station wagon that turned our family ride into a two car caravan because we couldn't figure out how to maneuver a Great Dane into the back of the car without first dismembering him, we were able to make it to Grandma and Grandpa's for the big day of eating. Or as Little Dog called it, "The first day of Thanksgiving." When Big Dog corrected him and said there was only one Thanksgiving day, Little Dog reminded him that the day after you got to eat leftovers and pie at breakfast, we all were forced to agreed that it was like a second day of Thanksgiving celebration.

Grandma spent much of the day buzzing about the kitchen getting everything in order, making sure we all had snacks then reminding us not to eat too much because we still had dinner on the way. As always we ate and talked and ate and talked. The boys obsessed over the new games Grandma and Grandpa brought for the Wii, keeping them unusually occupied apart from the short bursts of discord when a game was completed and a winner and loser were declared. Meanwhile the dogs monopolized the couches and chairs in the living room.

After the much needed post-meal digestion break, the pie was served and when I looked over to see the boys at the table with a can of whipped cream pretty much covering anything that resembled pie on their plates, I had to ask.
"Is that my child with a can of whipped cream in his hand? And does grandma really think that's a good idea?"
Her answer was little more than a sheepish grin and much stifled laughter that shook her body as she tried to look genuinely chastened. She clearly failed.

And even with the bedtime resistance from the boys that comes just like clockwork after any exceptional day, we can more or less declare the day a perfect Thanksgiving. Or as perfect as things can be in real life.
For that, I am extremely thankful.

Indoctrination

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 03:29:00 +0000

If you start planting the seeds when the kids are young, you can control their minds. Ok, not often, but sometimes it works out. Either that or I am simply taking credit for my child's excellent taste. Let me explain.

Today I took the boys to get their hair cut at Rudy's. While waiting for Big Dog to finish up, they started playing The Clash. Should I Stay or Should I Go to be precise. At which point Little Dog demanded my attention. "It's my favorite song!" he said enthusiastically, then started singing along. Next up was Rock the Casbah which he mistakenly called "Rock the Jazz bah" but still enthusiastically approved. He's been a fan of the Clash for a while now, so I'm not really surprised.

The other day on the way home from school, I asked Little Dog if he wanted to listen to some music. He did. He asked for a specific song, Blitzkrieg Bop by the Ramones. As we talked about the music and and listened to a few other songs, Little Dog told me that was his favorite band. Who can blame him? The Ramones are awesome. But thinking back I believe I may have laid the early groundwork for his very classic punk taste in music with his first Halloween costume. You decide.

My very own, punk rock baby circa 2006

In praise of friendship

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 25 Oct 2011 14:00:00 +0000

Today is a very good friend's birthday, and as I started my day I realized just how much this friend means to me. Naturally, I'm writing about Geekymummy. As part of the Walter Street group, she has become more than a friend and more like extended family. She has been instrumental in my life. In the years we have known each other she did me the service of introducing me to my future husband, standing up with me at my wedding, and being one of the very first visitors in the hospital after Big Dog was born. She even went as far as to become pregnant at the same time I was pregnant with Little Dog so I had someone to call and chat with while we were both out on maternity leave. How's that for dedication!

In life it is hard to find good friends, it is even more difficult for many friendships to stand the test of time. We all continue to grow and change as we work our way through life's many challenges and choices. In too many cases it leads to relationships growing apart and the shedding of acquaintances. Perhaps we have stayed so close because while we have both matured, neither of us have aged a bit. (Or maybe that's just wishful thinking.) Whatever the reason, I am extremely fortunate to count her among my friends and send her the most heart-felt birthday wishes.

The show must go on

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 03:31:00 +0000

Little Dog has always been a bit of a showman. He embellishes his everyday speech with vocabulary beyond his tender age. When he cries, he makes careful use of any nearby mirrors to monitor the quality and sincerity of his expression. If he has something to show you, he will make sure the items he displays is shown with exaggerated hand gestures and usually sound effects. For a while now, when his grandmother comes to visit, he makes a big production about hanging quilts from the upper bunk to make a stage curtain that covers the lower bunk to put on a production of some kind, usually involving stuffed animals being thrown out from the hidden bunk.

With this general atmosphere surrounding Little Dog, I'm never surprised when he requires an audience. I was however surprised the other night when he demanded I join him in the guest bedroom, lined up some chairs, demanded that Mr. Dog and I be seated and climbed onto the bed. Before he started to jump on the bed, he stripped off his clothes. And then the bouncing began. After a minute or two I asked if this was "The Naked Bouncing Show" to which he happily replied "YES!" and the real show started.

Gleefully he would jump and bounce then ask "Have you ever seen a guy bouncing on a bed do this?" then perform some kind of bellyflop or butt bounce or even a mid-air toe touch. He bounced and jumped, completely unclothed, for the better part of a half hour. At one point he jumped off the bed, ran to the piano and composed an impromptu theme song, hammering out notes while he sang "The NAKED. BOUNCING. SHOOOOOOOW!" then ran back to the bed to perform more amazing naked bouncing feats. Eventually bedtime rolled around and we had to call curtains on the show. Little Dog was not amused, but we assured him he could continue the show tomorrow night. And by God he did.

The second night of The Naked Bouncing Show was less attended. Mr. Dog opted out and Big Dog, immediately barred from providing a piano accompaniment to the performance, left after the first amazing bounces. The show was however altered to provide added interest. Our performer decided to don a cape. And thus the show was renamed, "The Naked, With a Cape, Bouncing Show" and the theme song was similarly revised.

The third night the show got a late start. We went into the bedroom just minutes before bedtime. "I think you might want to keep your clothes on this time, you'll be heading off to bed soon," I suggested. He thought about this for a moment, but still climbed onto the bed. A moment later he announced the night's performance as he stripped off his socks, "The Without Socks Bouncing Show!" he sang loudly, then started with the bouncing anew.

Eight

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 05:46:00 +0000

What did the zero say to the eight? Nice belt. Get it? (joke as told by Big Dog)

As of today I am the mother of an eight-year old. Unbelievable. You'd think year after year I'd get used to the seemingly breakneck speed with which these birthday arrive, but each new age seems to come up faster than the last. I wonder if I'll ever feel prepared when the birthdays arrive, and somehow I doubt it.

Happy birthday, Big Dog. It's been an amazing 8 years. I look at you now and I see such a big kid. You are always game to try new things and never shy to share your opinions. You are compassionate, fair-minded and kind, but you like to see things turn out in your favor and will sometimes take steps to manipulate the outcome to your advantage. Many times, because you are so sweet and charming, people don't even see it coming which leads your grandma to suggest you will either earn a living as a lawyer or a con man, and the more I see you in action, the more I tend to agree.

As you get older I am enjoying watching you learn about the world. Our conversations in the car on the way to school show me how your mind works and it makes me so proud. The other day our discussion about homelessness nearly brought me to tears. You care so deeply about others it moves me.

I love your sense of humor and I know you pride yourself on the ability to make people laugh. You love telling jokes, even if they don't always make sense, quoting lines from TV or movies and physical humor is a big part of your routine. In fact, it has become almost impossible to get a photo of you without making a face or rocking some kind of ridiculous pose. I guess it is payback from all of those years I did the same thing to my poor dad.

This year has not been all easy for you. You've been moodier and more easily frustrated. It's like you're beginning to understand that the world doesn't revolve around you and you aren't so happy about it. Your temper is quick, just like mine, but you don't seem to hold grudges long. I've had a chance to see glimpses what awaits me in your teenage years, and I am bracing myself.

The past year you've discovered your love of math, chess and soccer. You still love school and have surrounded yourself with a good group of friends. I'm so happy you seem to choose the nicest kids to be your buddies. Bey Blades and your DS seem to be your favorite toys, in fact you're obsessed with them. Makes me wonder what it will be next year.

You still love your pets, your parents and your brother, though you two seem to fight more now than in the past. As he tries to take control more often you seem to try to override him which seems to lead to more blow ups than before. I'm sure this will work itself out in time, but I still see you being gentle and caring enough with him that I don't worry too much about you two.

I love you big guy. I'm so proud of you and can't wait to see where this next year takes you.
Happy birthday, I love you like crazy.

Rude Awakenings or The Case Against Bunk Beds

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Sun, 09 Oct 2011 23:00:00 +0000

Yesterday was pretty action packed, so that might have been the cause. We started with Big Dog's soccer match, then a trip to Toys R Us where Grandma bought Big Dog his birthday present and Little Dog got a microphone (not sure this was a great idea in retrospect, but he seems to be enjoying it...a bit too much perhaps). After that it was off to Costco where we stocked up on pajamas and the boys had hot dogs for a late lunch. By the time we got home, there was a little time to play with the new toys before we headed off to the Seattle Sounders match. That's a lot for two little men, and for their mom.

We made it through the game and back home. When got back home they were even tired enough to fall asleep quickly. Or at least that's why we thought they fell asleep. We were proven wrong about 45 minutes later when Little Dog woke up crying. And then we heard the splash sound. And another. Yep, he was awake and vomiting.

Mr. Dog and I sprung into action, I got Little Dog out of his dirty shirt and into the bathroom, poised near the toilet just in case there were more stomach contents that were waiting to escape. I started to strip the sheets while trying not to lose any of the already lost chunks. If you've ever tried to change the sheets on an upper bunk in the dark without waking a sleeping child on the lower bunk, you'll understand the acrobatics involved. I was just getting the first sick-spattered pillow off the bed and into the washer when Mr. Dog was working on cleaning the splatter up off the floor. That's when he discovered the mess was worse than expected.

Not only had he filled his sheets and dosed the floor in vomit, he'd also given his brother a vomit hat. We're still not sure how he managed to vomit so precisely on his brother's head and pillow on the lower bunk, but there are larger questions here to ponder. How did his brother manage to sleep through it?

Begging for votes again

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Fri, 30 Sep 2011 00:00:00 +0000

I'm in the running for a Totally Awesome Award, which is, well, awesome. Somewhat less awesome is that they managed to both ignore my blog title "From Stage Dives to Station Wagons" AND misunderstand my URL. In Seattle, no less. I thought there was some kind of state law about knowing all of the major and several of the minor espresso beverages, but I could be wrong. At any rate, I'd love it if you'd take the time to vote for me, so if you don't mind, how about a vote for Mommy Need Salatte. And if you happen to know what Salatte is, could you please let me know? Because, apparently I need some.

And the eye rolling begins

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 10:52:00 +0000

I tend to think of young school age children as still being part of the parental fan club. It's not supposed to be until they reach the teen or at lest tween years before they no longer believe we are cool. Or at least that is what I've been fooled into believing. I think this may come sooner than we had anticipated.

This week after one of his ever multiplying number of soccer practices (that's a whole other topic I should write about, but just not right now) Big Dog was excitedly telling Mr. Dog about the drills they ran. In one of the games, Big Dog was explaining that each of the boys involved had balls and that he would kick the other guy's balls then the other guy would kick his balls. (I think you see where this is going, right? If not, you are a better person that either o the so-called adults in this family.) Mr. Dog listened attentively but I can only imagine the grin that was working the way across his face. Finally after listening to the mutual ball-kicking explanation for longer than any man with a slightly absurd sense of humor should be asked to endure without comment, Mr. Dog said, "Wow, that sounds painful!"

Big Dog paused, and in his best exasperated with the nonsense of the adults he is forced to live with voice said, "Papa, what kind of balls do you think I'm talking about? Soccer balls!" Then rolled his eyes in a way that silently but effectively conveyed "You are a buffoon, your joke isn't funny and I can't believe you have once again dragged me down to this level. Your humor is beneath me."

Between that and the recent spate of dramatic tantrums, I think we have a glimpse of what's to come. And let me tell you, at least the annoying your own kid part of it is kind of addictive.

Grab Bag: Just write

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 27 Sep 2011 17:05:00 +0000

Ready for your next writing prompt, it's up and ready over at Great Little Stories.