From Stage Dives to Station Wagons

Flat on my back

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 14 Jul 2009 14:00:00 +0000

Since Friday, the majority of my days (and entirety of my nights) have been spent flat on my back in my bed. I'm trying to be good. Trying to give the knee a lot of rest no weight on it, elevate it, ice it. I'm not allowed to roam the house. Mr. Dog keeps a close watch on me. Not that he won't let me get up, but he does remind me that I have dreams of this knee healing up quickly and with my clumsy nature being up on crutches is likely to be at odds with that goal. Since our living room is upstairs. Up the treacherous flight of stairs put in when the house was built back in 1906 for people with tinier feet and a love of odd riser heights. Though I assert I could make it upstairs on my crutches, Mr. Dog just laughs and shakes his head. "Fine," he says with his indulgent grin. "But how would you get back down?" And that more or less ends that discussion.

Since mobility is out of the picture for the time being, I've been filling my time other ways.

I've watched all 14 episodes of Firefly.

And Serenity, the Firefly movie

I've surfed the web, seeking out information on knee injuries and recovery times

I've spent way too much time of Facebook

I've caught up on email

I've talked on the phone

I've napped

I've watched all the back episodes of shows I like but can't watch around the kids

I've watched an endless loop of Scooby Doo with the boys when they want to snuggle with me

I've petted the dogs because they think I'm finally smart enough to figure out it's a good day when you don't ever leave the bed

Today I had phone meetings

Covered work email

Caught up on many items on my work to do list

I've been brought meals in bed

I've been brought pain meds in bed

I've been brought a stash of trashy magazines, chocolate and homemade blackberry sorbet-right to my bed.

But honestly, I'm so over this. I want to be up and around. Walking. Driving. Cooking. I'm a terrible patient.

But tomorrow I'll find out what the future holds. I went to the orthopedic surgeon today, he referred me for an MRI which I got this afternoon. He'll let me know what it says tomorrow. I don't think my options are all that great. One involves surgery, the other no surgery but a long recovery. And I'm sure there are other options that we didn't discuss. I still think he may find a badger in there, but Mr. Dog keeps telling me that's nuts. But at least finding out will involve a nice drive to the doctor's office to break up my day in bed.

Ouch

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 14:00:00 +0000

Friday as I was getting ready to leave work, I called home. I wanted to check with Mr. Dog to see if we were taking the boys to family swim. Why not? It's hot out and the Friday night session was pretty empty last week. The boys get to burn off some energy, I get to swim and we all get to have some good family time that doesn't involve our living room. We agreed we'd go after dinner. So after seared tuna steaks and coleslaw, we readied the kids and set out for the gym. No, we didn't plunge into the pool with a full stomach. While we didn't probably wait the full hour, getting the kids out of the house in any coordinated manner takes plenty of time.

A bit later we were all in the pool, splashing and swimming. I was playing dolphin with Big Dog. This game involves me launching off the side of the pool into a backstroke with Big Dog hanging around my neck. Last time we swam this entertained the boy for almost 90 minutes and it added a bit of exertion to an otherwise mellow trip to the pool. And it was fun right up until I had that weird popping explosion of pain in my left knee. Yeah, real fun.

I'll spare you the description of the hopping from the pool into the dressing room on wet floors. Wet slippery floors. I'll spare you the ordeal of changing out of a wet clingy swim suit single footed and I'll even spare you the details of how my house, filled with clutter, seems to be out to get me. What I will tell you is that yesterday I spent the morning in the ER. I got x-rays, I got a brace. I even got a prescription for pain pills and a pair of crutches. I got after care instructions to stay off my feet, keep the knee elevated and iced and load up on Advil. I also got the advice to follow up with an orthopedic surgeon on Monday just to make sure this is the kind of knee sprain that will heal up without surgery (and holy crap do I ever hope that's the case).

So the reset of the weekend I've spent laying in bed, knee elevated, hoping to all the magical knee healing powers in the world, that I'll be recovered enough by Friday to take our long planned family vacation. Because if this knee injury prevents me from taking our first family vacation in ages, I'll be one pissed off invalid.

Giant might be overstating things. Or at least I hope it is

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Fri, 10 Jul 2009 14:00:00 +0000

So I was in the kitchen minding my own business. Actually I was doing dishes, like a good and stable mother, when in walks Little Dog. Out of nowhere he says, "Mama, you have a giant butt."
"Wow, that's great. Thanks. Not really what I want to hear, but ok," I replied, still a little stunned that he felt needed to comment on my ass.
Fine, I have a little....um, padding. But I'm working on it. If anything there is less padding right now than last week and even less than the week before that. Anyhow, I start to feel a little bummed out. Why is my 3 year old picking on me? I probably said something along those lines at some point and he's just repeating what he heard, but it still doesn't make it nice.
And as I am in my own little world of self pity, Little Dog speaks again. "Every one's mama has a giant butt."
"Really, every one's," I ask, brightening slightly.
"Yes, all mama's have giant butts."
Well, at least I'm in good company.

Dream a little dream

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Thu, 09 Jul 2009 14:00:00 +0000

The other night I had a dream. Or maybe it was more of a nightmare. Whatever it was it was vivid. See, in my dream I was working in a bar I used to frequent in San Francisco. I was filling in for someone or moonlighting or something, but I was there. The bar had been being robbed by a team of attackers. More than just robbing the bar, they would also assault the bar staff.

As I was finishing up my shift, the assailants entered the bar. They started by targeting the bartender. As I tried to sneak by, looking for my purse and car key that was not in my purse for some reason in the dream, they changed their focus to me. They started in with physical attacks. I was beaten with a cane and then a heavy wooden ball attached to a rope. Between beatings they taunted me. They found my purse and robbed the till.

At some point, they moved me to a new location, a secret room that contained a swamp. In the middle of the swamp there was a large bird nest on a pedestal. Some kind of bird of prey was sitting on a clutch of eggs. They pelted me with dead kittens (yeah, I don't know where that came from, apparently I have a very sick mind) and told me I had to throw the kittens to the bird in the nest. When I did, a crocodile jumped out of the water and snatched the kitten out of the air. All of a sudden I was terrified of the crocodiles swimming in the water and saw their dark shapes swimming near me in the muck. And the robbers insisted that I had to keep tossing the kittens to the bird.

And while all of this was going on, as each new layer of danger was revealed, all I could think was "Thank God they didn't find my car key so I can still get home after all of this is done."

Anyone up for dream analysis?

A different perspective

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 08 Jul 2009 14:00:00 +0000

We were sitting in the living room when Dashiell poked his giant head over the baby gate to the upstairs porch.
"Well hello, horse!" said Mr. Dog, taking a gentle poke at the giant dog's size.
He got up and walked over to talk our huge puppy, and when he got there, Dashiell offered his chewed up stuffed snake toy for a game of tug. Mr. Dog obliged, but continued to use the teasing nickname "horse" as they played.
Little Dog walked up, watched a bit and asked, "Papa, are you being a cowboy?"
A little confused, Mr. Dog said, "No, I'm just playing with Dashiell."
Little Dog thought this over a moment and asked, "Is he being a horse?"

I guess from his angle, the nickname makes no sense and he was looking for a reason the dog was being called something other than his real name. His misunderstanding is adorable, but also really cool because it let me glimpse the world from his perspective for just a moment. Man I love this kid.

Facebook flashback

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 07 Jul 2009 14:00:00 +0000

The other day I got a Facebook friend request from a guy from my 5th and 6th grade classes. I was a little surprised. I don't remember being especially friendly with this guy, and I kind of assumed that if I wasn't good friends with someone in that era that I would be totally forgettable. He was a nice guy from what I remember and I considered accepting the request, but ultimately I chose to ignore it. Why? Well, mostly because that part of my life is a trip down memory lane I didn't feel like taking.

Let me explain a few things. The summer before 5th grade my family moved from Albuquerque, New Mexico to Tigard, Oregon. I went from being in an environment where I was more or less comfortable to being a total fish out of water. I was a chubby, shy kid who all of a sudden was out of her element, and I went from loving school to hating every minute of it.

Part of the problem was the differences between the schools. In New Mexico, being smart was more or less celebrated and encouraged. Advanced learners were given all sorts of opportunities and challenges. Once I moved to Oregon, being smart seemed to be more of an inconvenience for teacher than something they encouraged. If you didn't hit the middle of the curve, you took up time and effort they seemed to resent expending. And I more or less shut down academically.

But that wasn't the big problem. In Oregon, I had my first run in with mean girls. There was one girl in particular who seemed to delight in hassling me. It was completely unnerving. Being new in the class, being a head taller than everyone else, chubby and speaking with a slight southwestern accent, I was singled out for harassment. At every turn she was there beating my self esteem into the dirt and encouraging her little clique to do the same. By the time I moved to 6th grade I was so terrorized I'd given up on fitting in. I kept my head down and hoped to skate under their radar. That never happened. The more I tried to avoid her, the more she seemed to seek me out. I felt like a cornered stray being poked at with sharp sticks by the neighborhood bully.

The harassment continued into middle school. But in that environment it was easier to separate from that clique. Classes started to be separated into standard and advanced placement tracks, I went into one, she went into the other. I insulated myself with a new group of friends. We didn't worry about fitting in so much, we wore our differences on our sleeves. I skipped a grade and graduated a year ahead of my class and though my path crossed hers a few move times before graduation and she managed to sneak in a few ego sucker punches along the way, but by that time I'd set my sights on getting the hell out of Oregon.

After graduation I spent a year in the Netherlands. I developed a better sense of myself. I discovered I had strength I had never tapped into before. When I returned to the states, I was more secure and far more confident. I moved to San Francisco for college and like so many students who had been awkward or felt like outcasts, I flourished in my new environment. For me, in many ways, I consider that my true starting point.

So when I got the friend request, and saw that this particular girl was in the requestor's friend list, I decided to pass. And I couldn't imagine that it would matter that much to the person asking. But I misjudged. The next day I received an email explaining that he wanted to reconnect with people from our class. He was trying to get every person in those classes connected on Facebook. The fact that he bothered to follow up, to reach out again, changed my mind. I accepted his request.

I got a couple of other friend requests from that class. I accepted those too. So I spent some time catching up with people I'd more or less forgotten. It was weird. But the strangest part is how much the resentment I developed as a 10 year old has stayed with me, hidden under the surface, just waiting for this opportunity to bubble up. In retrospect, I wish I had been more secure and stood up for myself. Ok, really I wish I'd socked her in her bitchy face. I clearly have issues.

Anyone else have tales of bullying to share? Come on, don't leave me out here on my own.

I'm sorry I called you an asshole

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 06 Jul 2009 14:00:00 +0000

Today we lost a friend. Well, if a fish can be a friend. Goldy the fish decided that Independence Day was a nice day to die. Unlike the movie, she did not die fighting off alien life forms. She just made one last trip the the bottom of the tank. Mr. Dog found her. He gave me the knowing parent nod that means, "guess you're going to PetCo" and kept the boys occupied so I could make the fish run.

Unfortunately they caught me sneaking off to the car and asked what I was doing. I used the tried and true "I have an errand to run" excuse, but they weren't satisfied with that simple answer. They wanted details. In a moment of panic, I came up with a pathetic lie. "I have to get the dogs a surprise! It's an old tradition on 4th of July, dogs get surprises!" Lame, right? Sadly that's the best I could come up with. But the boys bought it and I was able to make the swap.

The new Goldy is about the right size and seems healthy and active. I'll give her a few days before I am completely convinced she'll survive. As they always say, the first days are the hardest. At some point I'm going to have to start leveling with Big Dog about fish mortality, but not right now. I'm on vacation. And with his current death obsession it would be more than I could handle. That's right, I'm being selfish, I'm not ready to cope, so I'm clamming up. If you have to take my Awesome Mommy gold star away, so be it. Wait, I never had one of those to start with. Probably due to shit like this. Whatever.

Sitting on my ass or How I spent my days off

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 14:00:00 +0000

I've had this week off work. Not really by choice, but I wasn't really opposed to the idea either. Similar to our "Spring Break" in April, this week was required time off for all US employees. Since I'm fairly loaded up with vacation days and I never really take much time off on my own, it works out for me pretty well.

After a few days in Portland with my family, I came back to Seattle with the boys and had two days free of mommy responsibilities while they were at preschool. Sounds heavenly, doesn't it? I'm not trying to say I don't like being a mom, but there are times I wish I had a secret room I could use as a retreat when they keep climbing on me and demanding my attention. I'm glad they like me, but it is hard to be in the spotlight of motherhood at all times.

Anyhow, as I looked forward to these two days, I had big plans. I was going to sew, I was going to organize, I was going to pamper myself. Right. Like any of that happened. Instead after walking the boys to school, I spent some precious one on one time with Mr. Dog. We took a walk to a local restaurant where we had some food and drew inspiration from an elderly couple who were also dining there. They came in wearing matching suspenders (yes, you read that right), loudly ordered their "usual" before they even sat down and the woman chattered mindlessly about every inane thing, including commenting on the fishing show they had on in the bar "They seem to be catching a lot of fish," while he husband sat silently holding her hand, nodding occasionally. I told Mr. Dog that this couple was us in 30 years, to which he replied with a pantomime finger gun to his head. That means he adores the very idea of it, right?

Today was less active. I took the boys to school, picked up the necessary items for my planned sewing project, then sat on the couch reading stuff on the internet and listening to a book on CD. (Go ahead and mock me, Mr. Dog. You know you want to.) I even caught up on work email and did a few tasks on my to do list so Monday won't be a total horror. I'm so lame. The saddest part is that I felt like I should be doing other things, but I really just wanted to sit on my ass. So I did. And it was freakin' great. You should try it. (but use your own ass, mine's occupied)

The replacment chicken

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Thu, 02 Jul 2009 14:00:00 +0000

We'd planned on having four hens. With one hen per person, it just might get close to our egg consumption. Then one of the girls turned out to be a boy. How do you go about filling that gap? Craigslist! After finding Chicky a new home, I turned to looking for started pullets (fancy name for girl chickens). Turns out someone had one, white and black like Chicky, that they were looking to unload. After a few emails and a few calls, I drove out to Monroe to pick up the new girl.

She's shy. Really really shy. And adding a new chicken to our little flock made the other girls a bit upset. They had to establish the pecking order, and turns out, our hens are real bitches. But things have settled down now. The new chicken is getting used to her new digs. The other chickens don't terrorize her all the time. Even Nikita's antics around the coop are starting to become familiar to her.

But what do you call a replacement chicken? I had some ideas. Considering the day before I picked her up, Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett had both died, I suggested Dancing Machine, or Farrah. Rejected. Then I brought out my favorite name, the one I was holding back. I had been in an 80s frame of mind and thought up Chicken Roboto. Get it? Like Mr. Roboto? I know, it's awesome. Sadly that too got rejected. Big Dog wanted to name her Chicky. Not at all inspired considering that was the name of the chicken I'd just been forced to rehome. But I'm a kind person. I said it was ok with me, then I put in one little plea for my name. "Can't we at least call her Chicky Roboto?" I ~~whined~~ asked. And he relented.

Later as we tried to get the new girl settled in, Big Dog called to her, "You'll be ok. I promise, Chicky (turning to me, his voice filled with that I'm-humoring-you-old-lady tone) Roboto." I've never been more proud. I have a chicken with a kick ass name and a total smart ass 5 year old. Score!

Polite dinner conversation

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 14:00:00 +0000

"This is no time for farting, it's time for eating!" announced Little Dog.
"That's right," I said, stifling a giggle. "It's dinner time."
Mr. Dog and I exchanged an amused look.
"I told my bottom," he continued earnestly.
"You told your bottom it's not time for farting?" asked Mr. Dog, just to clarify
"Yes," Little Dog agreed. "But he sure wants to fart."
And then we lost it completely.

Yet another first

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 14:00:00 +0000

Last July I posted about Big Dog starting a new school. My trepidation about moving him to a new place after being in his old preschool for so long, my anxiety about his transition, my projected drama. Turns out, he had none of that, he loved it. And last week, just under a year from his big brother's move to the new school, Little Dog joined his brother at preschool.

We decided to have both boys attend part time instead of Big Dog going full time and Little dog staying home. By the giant grin on his face when I told him he was going to school, and the giddy excitement of his big brother, telling me all the ways he was going to introduce Little Dog to his school, I know we made the right decision.

We took him for the first day yesterday (keep in mind, blog time is not real time, so I don't mean a literal yesterday here). He couldn't wait to get out of the car, and was hardly willing to pose for photos. He and Big Dog did their usual race up the ramp, but this time, at the top of the ramp he entered his new school as a student for the first time. He was greeted warmly by the kids he's seen on a daily basis at pick up and drop off times, but this time the buzz was all about him. One little girl ran up to let him know she'd made him a picture and then announced "I'm going to be your helper!"

It turns out the teachers had been letting the kids know Little Dog was coming and they were all excited to help him get up to speed at their school. It was heartwarming. So I brought in my boys, got them settled and said goodbye. I warned the teachers about his need to be reminded to use the potty if he was overly involved in any activity. I let them know about his stubborn streak and even filled them in on his stress induced hitting. Then I just hoped for the best. He's a great kid, funny, smart and sweet as anything, but he can also be a handful. He doesn't have the same people-pleaser tendencies his brother does and I was a little worried that might be an issue.

At pick up, as he sat fully engaged in a game of I Spy, his teacher assured me he'd done great. Everyone wanted to help him, he followed the routine without a hitch and did a great job of taking cues from other kids about what he should be doing when. In fact, he didn't want to come home. I think I'm going to call that a success. It does make me wonder why I worry so much about these things? Maybe I just thrive on anxiety.

Fighting the good fight

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 29 Jun 2009 14:00:00 +0000

Go ahead and judge me, but my kids do not go to bed on their own. Mr. Dog and I take turns sitting in their bedroom until they fall asleep. As hard as this routine can be, and as much as I sometimes wish they would just go to bed unassisted, I also know these moments will end at some point. The boys will no longer need me in this way, and I'll be left longing for the closeness of their dark bedroom and the last whispered words of our day.

Big Dog will fall asleep on his own pretty quickly once he is in bed as long as he knows we are nearby, but Little Dog fights sleep as though his life depends on constant sleep deprivation. He can be so cute and charming in his struggle to stay awake, it is a chore to really be a hard ass. Many nights he ends up in my lap on the rocking chair. Many nights he pulls random stuff out of his brain to discuss in these pre-sleep moments. Anything to prolong his wakefulness. Usually I just keep repeating "It's sleeping time, no more talking."

Last night he was in fine form.
Cuddled in my lap, stroking my cheek with his soft little hand, "Mama, I love you."
"Shhh, sleeping time, no more talking."
"I need lots of kisses, mama."
A couple of quick quiet kisses later, I repeat, "Sleeping time, no more talking."
"Mama, I love you."
No response.
"Mama," little hand stroking my hair, "I love your hair."
"Sleeping time, no more talking."
Still stroking my hair, looking up at me with heavy eye lids, the beginnings of sleep upon him, "But mama, I love your hair. It's so.....cool."
A silence, a few long blinks that almost keep his eyes closed for the sleep he so dearly needs. Then open, looking up at me once again bright, his struggle to stay awake renewed.
"You're like a rock star!"

Not entirely sure where that came from, but this kid sure knows how to work his mama.

An unclear concept

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 14:00:00 +0000

Any parent knows that a few hours of kid-free solitude is an amazing gift. The quietude of your own home, the freedom to do as you wish, even if that is nothing at all, is the stuff that parental dreams are made of. On Saturday, after spending several hours on a family outing, I decided to give that gift to Mr. Dog. I took the boys to a local coffee shop and met up with a good friend and her son. And while that meeting may have been the precise opposite of what I had so lovingly provided Mr. Dog, that is a whole other story I won't go into now.

As we were walking out the door, Mr. Dog told me, "I might take a nap!" His voice was filled with the same giddy expectation the boys get when I cave to their demands for marshmallows. He knew he had it good.

After a rather hellish outing with the kids, we returned home. The boys went upstairs to find their papa, and found him resting in the guest room bed. Little Dog was fascinated.

"Papa, you sleeping?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Mr. Dog, "I was."
"Who made you go to sleep?" Little Dog continued, knowing that no sane person could ever want to go to sleep of their own free will.
"No one made me go to sleep. I was tired. I decided to take a nap. I wanted to sleep."
But this is like speaking a foreign language to a child who will pinch his own face to keep himself from drifting off at bed time. He was confused by the concept of willingly taking a nap.
"Who told you to take a nap?" he asked.
"No one, I told myself to take a nap."
Little Dog pondered this for a moment, then asked, with more certainty than question in his voice, "Did mama tell you to take a nap?"

Because apparently, in this house, I am the sleep police. Just wait til he's a teenager and the lust for sleep finally kicks in. I'm going to take great joy in waking him up for school every morning.

Bye bye, Michael

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Fri, 26 Jun 2009 01:56:00 +0000

When we were little, living in Albuquerque, New Mexico, we used to take dance lessons at a dance studio on 4th Street. I think it was called Starlet Dance Studio, but I'm not sure, the name may have just morphed into that over time. Anyhow, the name of the studio was not the point, it was the dancing. Several nights a week, Kathleen and I used to take lessons. Jazz, Tap, Baton and Acrobatics. We danced up a storm in that little studio to lots of music from the late 70s and early 80s. I remember our Acrobatics recital piece was set to The Village People's "In the Navy" and I especially remember our daily jazz warm ups were always started to George Benson's "On Broadway," and finished to Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough." Even now, hearing that song makes me want to step-ball-change diagonally across the room. In pairs. With "big arms."

A few years later, I remember watching hours of MTV. I remember the premiere of Thriller and waiting to see it again and again. That was the year I got my first filling. See, my enamel on my back teeth never fully closed and in the deep grooves of my teeth I got a cavity. Our family, or at least the women in my family are pretty proud of our teeth. And that year, I was mortified that I had to get a filling. Mortified and terrified. My perfect-toothed sister liked to tease me. She'd run around after me saying "drill drill drill" until I lost it. My mom caught her doing this, and because I as so scared, she let me buy a new tape to play in my Walkman while I had my filling done. I chose Thriller. I listened to that cassette about a million times. By the end of its run it didn't even play quite right.

In that same time frame I remember a visit with a friend in California when some company started selling a rhinestone encrusted "Michael Jackson" glove. I remember her begging her mom to buy her one. And I remember thinking how cool that would be. Keep in mind I was really really young. I also thought the moonwalk was pretty awesome. I've grown up a bit since then in my appreciation of dance and accessories. I promise.

And then I outgrew Michael Jackson completely. My musical tastes changed, I got too cool for Mr. Goody-goody. By the time Bad, came out I was way over it. And I don't know if it just my perspective, or if I'm right on when I say, he pretty much sucked after that. He all but disappeared from my consciousness.

I still saw him on tv, still saw the news coverage. Over the years I saw him turn strange and really kind of creepy. I wish that never happened. Not only because I worry about what really happened to those little kids, but because now, today, now that he's dead I have to reconcile my love of that early music with the weird and sad person he became.

Maybe we should have named him Lola

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Thu, 25 Jun 2009 14:00:00 +0000

And his theme could have been "Dude Looks Like a Lady". Or at least he did for a long time. See, here's the thing about chicks. They are all essentially adorable balls of fluff completely indistinguishable as male or female. I mean there are some breeding tricks that will make the males or females of a specific mating easy to spot, but for most breeds, the sorting is left to a talented group of people called chicken sexers. They take a quick peek in the chick's "vent" and decide if it looks manly or not. This is really more of an art than a science, but most chicken sexers boast about 90% accuracy.

So why am I not at all surprised that one of the four chicks I selected ended up being a boy despite being sexed as a girl (that sounds so kinky, but it isn't kinky at all!)? I became suspicious about two weeks ago when the comb on Chicky seemed to be bigger and pinker than Chicky-chicky-chicky's. They're the same breed, so they should be about the same. My heart sunk and I thought, ok crap, it's a rooster. So I did some quick internet exploration and found that most likely this she was really a he. But, chickens being tricky things, there is really no way to know for sure until other indicators appear. Pointy feathers, sickle feathers in the tail, or the trademark cock-a-doodle-doo! So even with the first indications that this was a he in she's clothing, I had to wait. And I'm not very good at waiting.

If we lived on a farm, or if we were morning people who also hated all of our neighbors, having a rooster wouldn't be an issue. But living in a city, near people we might want to be friends with despite our long and messy construction projects going on in the yard, having a loud rooster crowing brightly every morning is not a good thing. It also wouldn't be so hot for the three other hens. As I learned in my chicken class, roosters are a very horny lot. They like lots of hot chicken sex, and with just three hens to molest, the hens would pay a high price. They would feel harassed, they might lose feathers from the rough treatment and they might even quit laying due to the trauma. So, the rooster thing is a big deal for us. We simply cannot have a rooster.

So, there's really about a 50/50 chance any chick, if they are not sexed, will be a rooster. What happens to all of those male chickens you ask? Well, apparently they are very tasty. And those that don't end up on the table may be part of a flock as long as there are enough hens per roo, and in that case their lives can be pretty sweet. Anyhow,I started thinking about what we would do if my fears were realized. And then I started trying to calm these fears. I mean, 90% chance he is a she, right? And fine, the comb was big and pink and being a rooster would explain a lot of Chicky's behavior, but it is just me being paranoid. And so went my mind for the past two weeks.

Then I noticed an iridescent feather in the slightly too sickle feathered tail. And I knew. I couldn't rationalize that. It's a rooster trait. Combined with all of the other hints I was forcing myself to ignore, it was irrefutable. So I broke the news to Big Dog, and set out to find a home for our little boy chicken.

That was easier than expected. I thought it would take at least a week, so on Monday I posted a craigslist ad offering this rooster to anyone who would offer him a good home and promised not to pop him in a stock pot. My expectations were low. There were multiple other roosters up for cheap sale from city chicken people in the same situation. Imagine my surprise when I got an email about 2 hours later from a guy looking for roosters for his flock. He offered Chicky a good life with lots of hens and space to roam where his soon to come cock-a-doodle-doos wouldn't be a problem. We made arrangements for me to drop him off, and the deal was done.

Once again, I broke the news to Big Dog. He took it better than I expected. No tears, a bit of sadness and a little confusion as to why he would need so many hens "to play with", but he was more or less ok with him finding a home where he could be really happy.

Tonight I packed Chicky into Dashiell's old dog crate, and the family drove out to his new home. His new owner is a really nice guy, he has a 10 year old son who was as sweet and polite as I hope my boys will be at that age. The chickens are being raised at a place offers horse and pony rides. There was a big garden, an artifical pond and lots of space to roam. I couldn't have imagined a better environment for my little rooster. I was so pleased and amazingly relieved. He showed us where Chicky would be living, promised the boys they could come and visit (with a whispered aside to me that he had lost chickens before to hawks or foxes, so that was always a possibility) and Chicky officially became part of his flock.

I wish him all of the happiness in the chicken world. He was never the most friendly of the chicks, and was never my favorite, but he was a part of our tiny flock for a short while. I feel a little sad we had to give him up. I'm such a sentimental fool.

Mr. Dog's alter ego

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 24 Jun 2009 14:00:00 +0000

Little Dog, in a late night fit of, well...Little Dogness has just renamed Mr. Dog.
So what shall you call Mr. Dog from here on in? Simple. His new name is Torch Mama Action Butt. And I can't quit giggling.

Big Dog and the chickens

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 23 Jun 2009 14:00:00 +0000

A few days ago Big Dog was outside with me while I was taking care of the chickens. While I put the locks on their chicken house and coop door, he was feeding them long blades of grass. This has become a favorite activity of his lately. The chickens greedily grab the greens and gobble them down as quickly as he can poke them through the mesh of the coop. It's really cute how he calls to them, "come get your burritos!" and explains to me, "I want them to think it's better than just grass."

After a while, he looks at me and tells me, "I want them all fat and chicken-y!" He returns to feeding and chatting with the chickens he has raised in the house from tiny balls of chick fluff. Once again he turns to me and says, "They're going to be chicken-y. And when they quit laying eggs we're going to roast them!" with a devilish glint in his eye.

"Really?" I asked, somewhat stunned that my gentle and sensitive boy is now talking about dining on the flesh of his pets.
"Yes," he continues, "we'll roast them up and eat them!"
"I don't think so." I say, because honestly these are laying hens. They are productive pets who will give us eggs and shit copious quantities of poo we will compost and use in the garden. These are not for eating. These are...cute.
"Yes, we'll roast them and I'll eat their drumsticks!" he insists.
"No, I don't think so," I persist. "Do you really want to eat your chickens?"
"Yes!" then he pauses. "Does that mean they'll have to be dead?"
"Well yes, you can't eat a living chicken."
"But I don't want them to die. I want them to be alive. I don't want them to ever die," and he was suddenly sad.
I reassured him the chickens were going to be alive for a long time. I said we have years of eggs ahead of us, that the chicks are still really young and healthy. We don't need to worry about them dying for a long time.

Since then we've been having many conversations about death. I don't think the chickens conversation put the idea in his head. I think he'd been thinking about death before, but I do think it created a tether to his real life that he didn't have before. As much as I love watching his understanding of the world develop and grow, I do not like having to discuss death with this sweet young boy. But I do. Because I am the mommy, and it is my job.

Uh oh

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 22 Jun 2009 14:00:00 +0000

"Drink my white blood," mutters Little Dog, as he takes a sip from his cup of milk.
"What?" asks Mr. Dog.
"I was just making my cup talk," says Little Dog.

Things like this make me wonder what the hell I'm doing to these kids.

Happy Father's Day, Mr. Dog

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Sun, 21 Jun 2009 17:44:00 +0000

You're the best papa ever, from the very first moment. We love you.

with Big Dog 10/2003

with Little Dog 2/2006

Amature hour

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 14:00:00 +0000

Facebook last night: "Laura Williams Argilla is kind of disappointed in her pot luck performance. Forgot the spoon to put the berries on top of the cake and the tart stuck to the pan. Amateur hour. Luckily this was a pretty forgiving crowd. It may not be a slam dunk, but I'll call it a win...despite the solid performance of the ringer brought in by a mommy who shall not be named."

Well, it wasn't a total loss. The cake and tart were both eaten up well before we got to the buffet table, but it wasn't my finest work. In the world of competitive pot lucking, it was a pathetic display of poor planning. I was mortified.

But as with all hardships comes lessons worth learning. What lessons you ask. Did you learn a lesson in humility? Did you learn that taunting your competition on Facebook serves no one? No, not that lesson. Perhaps you learned about counting your chickens before they hatch (though I had no chickens before they hatched, we got them as chicks)? Perhaps it was the lesson of being too confident? No, not that lesson.

So what lesson did I learn? Last night I learned, never, and I do mean never, run out of parchment for baking. But I learned more than that. I also learned that if you do, and you decide to use aluminum foil to line the pan, you need to remember to grease the foil. I will never make those mistakes again. I promise.

Take in a dish, take home the glory! or How I do pot lucks

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 14:00:00 +0000

"Laura Williams Argilla has figured out what dessert I'm making for the pot luck. I'm pretty sure I'm going to win this one! Just wait for my victory laps around the cafeteria, fist pumping in the air as the kids sing the Rocky theme. Awesome!" I posted on Facebook. Ignore the odd use of third and first person in a single status update, but the facts are there.

Preschool pot lucks are stiff competition. Sure there are the basics. Jello wigglers, big hits with the kids, parents ignore them. Fancy green salads, parents like them, kid pretend they don't exist. There are always chocolate chip cookies and brownies. Usually there's a lasagna. Sometimes sublime sometimes sub par. Other moms bring in more exotic fare. And there is always a winner. Always, even if no one says anything about it. The winter pot luck was tricky. But I had an advantage going in. I was the new mom at preschool, the other moms had no idea I would bring out the big guns. I killed at the last pot luck and I am going to win this one as well.

Now back to Facebook. A few people asked for a sneak peek of what I was making, someone asked which Rocky theme the kids would sing, Eye of the Tiger or Come and Fly Now.
Then my sister had to ask, "Is it even a competition?"

My response? "Kathleen, it's ALWAYS a competition. They may not bill it as a competition, but that just weeds out the weak." And technically, it may not be a competition, but just let that try and stop me from competing. It's in my nature.

So she says "Some how I knew it was a 'competition'." Nice. She's even sarcastic in her Facebook comments. That's my big sister for you.

But she hasn't had the cake I'm making for the pot luck. That would change her tune. And if that didn't do it, the herbed goat cheese and heirloom tomato tarts might.

That's right bitches, I play for keeps!

Just so you know

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 04:28:00 +0000

I don't consider comments one-upping. ever. even if they really are one-upping me. just wanted to make that clear.

Five inventions mommies really really need

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 14:00:00 +0000

There are a lot of products out there directed at moms. Some of them are great and some of them are just flat out moronic. (Hooter hider? Seriously?) Why can't someone create things that we really need? Things that would help us get day to day stuff done while keeping our sanity in tact. I have a few suggestions for a pioneering individual who wants to create the next invention to save all moms.

1. The Cone of Silence: Essentially a clear but sound-proof dome that a mom can sit in when the boys are playing loud games or testing out their screeching voices. Sure it would have to have some kind of speaker so the mom within could communicate with her offspring, but we're the country that has put a man on the moon, we should be able to do this!

2. The Cone of Stop Touching Me: Similar to the cone of silence, but really more protection from being used as a climber, chair, poking victim, or pillow. The goal here is to provide a mom a minimum amount of personal space where she can just sit and not be, well, touched.

3. The Slick Suit #1: No, not for protecting you from #1, this suit would be a slick fabric that didn't look shiny. Something that snot, spit up, mashed bananas, mud and all other child carried contaminants would wipe off with a damp sponge. For me, this would help me get out of the house in the morning without needing multiple clothing changes. It should be stylish and flattering, and especially efficient at concealing the muffin top.

4. The Slick Suit #2: Again, nothing to do with that #2, this suit would be coated with a extra slick surface. The goal is to prevent children from clinging or climbing on a mom when she is just trying to relax, or get errands and simple chores done. Think banana peel, but more wearable.

5. The Tantrum Tamer: I'm not quite sure what this would be, but it might involve a child sized straight jacket, ear plugs and a couple of Valium. Obviously I'm still working through the kinks on this one.

Any other genius ideas?

Songwriter in training

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 16 Jun 2009 14:00:00 +0000

Little Dog has always liked music. He loves to be sung to, love to dance an loves to sing. Recently his singing has really stepped up. The other day, after being told "no" for one reason or another, probably to prevent injury or dismemberment, he decided he was mad. And in true musical style, he decided to sing about it. He walked around the house singing his little song, mostly "I'm mad, mad, man. I don't love you anymore. I'm mad," for several minutes. Finally he approached Mr. Dog, who was smiling in amusement over this song and dance and sternly told him, "I'm singing a mad song!" as though to tell him to quit smiling and get with the program.

Another day he spent time hammering out tunes on the piano in the upstairs guest room. He plays the piano with both hand, head down singing as he composes his own tunes. We all listened from the living room. After a bit, he emerged from the guest room and excitedly announced, "My mystery song is complete!"

I can't wait to see what his next composition will be. Will someone please contact the Recording Academy and let them know they'll need to be preparing his Grammy?

Swimming in science

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 15 Jun 2009 14:00:00 +0000

I am not sciency. Mr. Dog is. The kids? Well, I think we're both kind of hoping they'll lean to our own personal direction. I'd love for the kids to be artsy, Mr. Dog would love for them to be sciency. We'll just have to wait and see if our own preferences have any influence as the kids get older. I say this now because currently Mr. Dog seems to be winning. Then again, it isn't like he's really playing fair. Telling kids you get to play with robots at work sounds much cooler than "I get to help make the software that makes TV!" I mean, my job is way cooler, but explaining what I do to a child is difficult. For example, how do I explain software to a kid? Say I manage to do that, how do I explain how what I do helps make TV? Starting to see my point?

Mr. Dog on the other hand seems to have his own set of co-conspirators. Take Sid the Science Kid for example. The kids love it and why wouldn't they? It's a cartoon, it's funny and they make science seem like a lot of fun. A lot of people want kids to be better in science so the tools are there to help make it attractive to shorties. And then we have our friends getting in on the act. Like Nicole. She used to work in a lab in San Francisco with Mr. Dog and Auntie Maria. She's still a good friend of ours and she came to visit this week while interviewing for a job in Seattle. She brought with her science kits for the kids. How is this fair?

Naturally the kids dove into the experiments with relish. They have only done a couple and every time we walk into the house they start asking to do more science. Little Dog exclaimed last night "I'm a scientist!" with a huge smile and a ton of pride. As long as they're having fun, I'm ok with it. So while Mr. Dog chased after the boys asking "Do you have your transfer pipette?" I got to sit back and giggle. At any rate, I know in the long run I'll win. When they come visit me at work, they always get brownies from the cafeteria. Top that, Mr. Dog!