From Stage Dives to Station Wagons

Abracadabra

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 15:00:00 +0000

I don't know why I did it, other than sometimes it can be amusing to lie to your kids. Really, I didn't mean anything by it, but once I started it, there was no easy out. Until tonight. See, a few months ago, while shopping at Trader Joe's, Big Dog asked for a bag of Babybel cheese. I agreed. It was something different for the lunch box and as a child I was a sucker for the pretty wax wrapped cheeses too. No big deal. Pretty quickly these cheeses became a standard in our grocery basket. Nothing was wrong with any of this. Not yet. And then weekend as we snacked on these adorable cheeses, I pretended to rub one on Mr. Dog's head. And like magic I produced the second cheese I'd tucked into my sleeve. I proclaimed Mr. Dog's head to have magical powers of cheese reproduction. Why I did this, I really have no idea. All I can say is it sounded like a good idea at the time. And the kids were in awe. From that day forth, Babybel was referred to as "the magic cheese" and every time we were running low, Big Dog would demand that Mr. Dog rub one on his head to make more. I'd stand silently by, doing my best to stifle my body-shaking chuckles.

Until tonight. Today, we did our weekly Trader Joe's run, and as usual, Big Dog asked for "the magic cheese" to be included in our shopping. At dinner Mr. Dog brought some cheese to the table and performed his usual trick. After the cheese was devoured, and Mr. Dog left the table, Big Dog decides to inspect the "magic".

"I think I know what happens with the cheese," he says.

"Oh, the magic?" I ask.

"No, I think he starts with two pieces but one is put someplace. The he rubs the cheese on his head and shows us both of them"

"Oh, so it's not magic?" I ask.

"No. I think it's a trick," says my little detective.

When Mr. Dog returned to the table, Big Dog called him on the deception. And while he didn't confess, he did have to admit his son did a pretty good job of working it out.

Then Little Dog stepped in. "If you had two, you could rub them on your head and one would go into," dramatic pause, "your brain!" said in a spooky voice with jazz hands for added emphasis. Now that would be a trick!

Claim to fame

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 15:01:00 +0000

Out of nowhere Little Dog asks, "Mama, what does tail mean?" He's doing this a lot lately. He picks a word we use all the time and asks me to define it. Sometimes it's easy, sometimes it's an abstract concept. Try defining "was" for a 3 year old and you'll understand. Tonight it was tail.

Easy, I thought.

"You know the long thing that Nikita and Dashiell have on their bums. The long thing that wags? That's a tail."

"No, mama. What does tail mean?"

"It's the thing on the dog's body they wag."

"No! What does tail mean?" he asks with increased emphasis, letting me know he is not accepting this definition. He does this a lot too. So I try my old fallback.

"Hmm. I don't know. Maybe you should ask papa."

"Yeah, he's a scientist!" adds Big Dog. They're pretty impressed by Mr. Dog's profession.

"That's right," I say, "He can probably tell you."

They sit quietly for a moment, possibly mulling their father's scientific brilliance, then Big Dog speaks, his voice full of scientific aspirations. "I hope he discovered dog butts."

And I just didn't have the heart to shatter that dream.

Tummy trouble

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 15:00:00 +0000

Today if you lift up my shirt you'd see a small black star drawn on my stomach just to the left of my bellybutton. No, it isn't a new tattoo, it's just a bit of Sharpie ink, but it was necessary to sooth a raging preschooler.
Last night, as Big Dog and I were cruising through his kindergarten homework, because I wasn't good about doing it all month long in any organized way, we came to the assignment to draw a friend from his class. Little Dog, who would love nothing more than to go to school all day with Big Dog, started to rant. It's not unusual, and I generally just include him in the homework since most of it is within his ability, and the few things that aren't can be easily modified. I offered him his own notebook and pencil so he could join in and this is where things went wrong. See, Little Dog claimed he didn't know how to draw his friend. He liked Big Dog's drawing and needed his to look just like that one. So I offered to help, turns out this was my second mistake. He willingly surrendered his pencil and let me try to draw his friend. I did a modified stick figure, with a oval for a torso. Third mistake. Big Dog had drawn his friend with a rectangular trunk. Obviously this was far superior. Little Dog wailed, "No, I want the belly like Big Dog's belly." So I redrew a second figure on the page, this one with a rectangle. "NO! I don't want two on the page. I want one. With a belly like Big Dog's belly!"
Knowing that he was more tired and frustrated after being cooped up all day, I tried to divert his attention to something else. "Look here," I said conspiratorially. Then I exposed my belly button. Big Dog followed. I poked his belly button and he giggled. "It's just like yours mommy!"
Sure it is. Only in so much as we both have inny belly buttons, but I grinned and agreed.
Little Dog then lifted his shirt to show his belly button. "Oooh, yours is like papa's!" I said, pointing to his outie. Yep, you guessed it, this was my fourth mistake. He burst into tears. He screamed "I want a belly like you, mama!" and as I tried to tell him that really, no one wants a belly like mine. In fact if I could figure out how to get rid of this belly, I'd unload it in a minute, he sobbed and screamed and rebuked all efforts at comforting him. He really wanted a belly like mine, he hated his belly. When I told him I'd go to the belly store and get him one, he sneered at me. "Actually, there is no belly store, mama. That's not real." and the screaming started anew.
Finally I managed to wrangle the tiny man into my arms and sat with him in the rocking chair. I told him the reason my belly looked the way it did was partly because I had a fat belly. I wanted my belly to look like his. In fact, if he would help me, I'd try to lose some of that belly and make my belly look more like his. To which he replied I was not fat, and that he wanted my belly.
Exhausted and beaten I fell into silence. Then remembering an earlier conversation, it came to me.
"Hey buddy, since you and I have different looking bellies, what if I draw a star on your tummy in the morning, then I'll draw a star on my tummy. That way, even if our bellies look different, we'll still have matching bellies."
He pondered it for a moment and agreed. This morning when I drew the stars on our tummies his grin was truly ear to ear. See, sometimes I get this mothering thing right.

Painted

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 15:00:00 +0000

"Mama, I'm so sorry," said Little Dog walking up behind me in the kitchen. I turn around thinking this can't be good.
"What's did you do, Little Dog?" I say scanning him with my eyes looking for evidence of mayhem.
"I painted myself, mama. I'm so so sorry."
"Oh, that's not a big deal. I don't mind if you paint yourself, just don't get it on the furniture."
"But mama, I painted myself," he repeats with a pleading in his voice.
"Little Dog, it's ok. As long as it doesn't make a mess on the furniture I really don't mind," I reiterate. And he still looks confused. "Look," I say, pulling my shoe off and showing him the tattoo on my foot, then pulling up my pant leg on the opposite leg to show the dragonfly tattooed on my ankle. "See," I said watching his face register the idea, "I like to paint on myself too. I just have someone else do it." He turned his face up to me, beaming. "I really don't mind if you paint or draw on yourself as long as you only use your paints and markers, because those are safe and you are too young for tattoos."
"But when I'm a grown up?" he starts.
"Sure," I say, "when you're a grown up."

But will they teach the art of Unagi?

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 15:00:00 +0000

When you have two boys, close in age, I think it quickly becomes apparent that beating the crap out of each other is not only a hobby but a sport. I comment on it frequently, but the kicking, jumping and tackling sometimes stuns me, sometimes amazes me but is always a part of our daily life. It seemed only natural that the logical next step would be to channel this energy in to a more disciplined pursuit. And what would be more natural than karate?

I had been looking for classes for a while, and just recently found a program that had a class that a) included 3 to 7 year-olds so both kids could be in the same class b) happened on the weekend when I could actually take them and c) was close to the house so I could actually get there even if we were having a good morning. I talked to the director of the program and we set up a trial class. I decided to keep it as a surprise and only told Big Dog the morning we were scheduled to go.

What reaction would you expect from a child who had repeatedly shown you his "kung fu!" and had mastered "Hiya!" complete with a nice chopping motion at 18 months? Tears? Because if that's not what you were expecting, you would have been wrong. He had a total freak out. "I don't want a karate class!" he howled as he listed the reasons I should not force him to go. "I'm shy!" he insisted. And for an hour we went back and forth. I'd try the "How do you know you won't like it if you don't try it?" standby and he'd reply with "But I don't want to go!" to which I'd counter, "If you go this once, and you don't like it, you never have to go again," and he give me the classic, "I don't like it! I already don't like it." It was fun. Ok, it sucked.

Finally Mr. Dog stepped in and negotiated a deal. Big Dog tried the karate class, and if he didn't like it he didn't have to go back (sound familiar?) and after the class, no matter what, he could have a chocolate milk. It was on.

When we got to the class, the instructor met us at the door and we introduced the boys. And just after I told him that Big Dog was kind of shy, Big Dog showed his best karate front kick, right at the instructor's shin. And then he was not at all shy, he got into it. Little Dog who had been very enthusiastic cooled a bit when he was told he had to bow to the mat. Honestly, I'm not sure I get that one either, but rules are rules. The best he gave them was a little head tilt. When the instructor complimented him on his tiny concession, Little Dog replied, "I call that looking at the floor." When the class started, we went to talk about the enrollment fees and tuition and when we returned they were both so into the class even Little Dog was following all the rules, including the mat bowing.

After the class ended, we met up with the boys. They were nearly vibrating with excitement. I couldn't resist. "So you hated it and never want to go back, right? Because that's ok with me. Really," I said with my best mommy straight face.

"No," he says. "I really want to come here again."

"Well, ok," I said, "We'll sign you up. I'm glad you enjoyed it. What was your favorite part?" I asked.

"Let me show you!" Big Dog said, turning to face me. Then he kicked me in the shin three times. Remind me again why I'm training them to kick my ass?

Absolved

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

I saw the call come in on my second line at work. I was in a phone meeting, but I didn't recognize the number and that usually is not good. It was local. It was probably someone I needed to talk to. I quietly put my meeting on hold and picked up the incoming call.

"This is Laura," I said, as I do when I answer my work phone.

"Hi, it's Susan," started one of Little Dog's teachers at preschool. "It looks like Little Dog is the next one in our class to get sick."

"Oh no!" I said.

"He threw up at snack," she started but before she could continue, I cut to the chase.

"I'll come pick him up." I said. "I'm sorry." I added, as though I played some part in his illness. For the record, I did not. And I did not drop off a sick child this morning. In fact, it was a good morning. He woke up with a smile, got up, ate breakfast, played with his brother, got dressed and happily ran off to play when we got to school. No morning drama, which I am becoming all too accustomed to. No, today was a good day. Until snack.

I returned to my phone meeting and as soon as it was possible, I excused myself. I sent out an email and headed off to pick up Little Dog.

When I got to his preschool, he was sitting at one of the small tables with his head down while his friends played around him. When he saw me, he started to cry. Sad sobbing with that extra something only a sick little boy can add.

I picked him up, spoke briefly to his teacher, collected his belongings and got him to the car. My normally vibrant and feisty boy was miserable. He hardly held his head up and when we had to stop for gas on the way home, he was hit by nausea again. I managed to get a sweater in front of him before he christened my car, but only just.

As we drove home I talked to my little guy.

"Oh angel boy, I'm so sorry you are sick," I said, glancing in the rear view mirror at his very subdued little face.

"It not your fault, mama" he said in the saddest little sick boy voice. "It not your fault."

Aw, sweetness. I didn't even try to explain what I meant.

Strange Days Indeed

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

I do not much care for days like today. Days where the skies are grey and the greyness seems to seep into the lives beneath it. Days when I look at my "baby" and realize he no longer a baby, nor a toddler. Days when I realize their rapid pace growth is not likely to slow down. Days when I realize that soon I will not have little boys at all, soon they will be big. Days when I admit there will be no third baby because as nice as Mr. Dog tries to be about it, he really is done. Days when I realize I am a middle aged woman, not the young person my mind thinks I am. Days when I feel like a middle aged woman. Days when I look at the world around me and think that more people are cruel and crappy than I'd admitted before. Days when I feel powerless to fix that. Days when I worry that no matter what I do, things will still be screwed up. Days when I realize I probably don't do as much as I can. Days when I realize that progress is slow and as soon as we become complacent we quietly backslide and lose our newly gained ground.

Yep, days like this kind of suck.

Wordless Wednesday: Boo!

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 14:00:00 +0000

Musical Youth

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 14:00:00 +0000

We were driving in the car, and as usual, I have music playing. The kids are digging it. Little Dog is playing his imaginary drums, and I almost don't mind the constant but rhythmic kicking of the back of my chair. Almost. Big Dog is bouncing along with the beat.

"Mama, who is this?" asks Big Dog. "It's not Ella Fantsgerald." (Give him some credit, he doesn't have it quite right, but it isn't quite as wrong either.)

"No," I reply, "It's Adam Ant."

"Adam Ant?" he replies with a heavy not of skepticism in his voice.

"Yep, Adam Ant."

That's when he gave me the look that let me know he was never going to trust me with musician names again.

Posers

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

Big Dog is on the floor, hands down, legs straight, bum in the air. "Guess what this, mama!"

"Downward dog!" I say, recognizing my favorite yoga pose in his smaller form. PE has changed a bit since I was in school. Gone are the days of dodgeball and square dancing and a new era of yoga and aerobic Hippity-Hopping has been ushered in. Big Dog loves the yoga and especially loves this guessing game we play as he learns new poses.

Not to be left out, Little Dog begins jumping up and down. "Guess what this is, mama!" he squeals.

"Um, bouncing?" I guess.

"Yes!" he shouts, excited to be a part of our quiz show.

Now Big Dog is on his stomach, arms straight, head thrown back, back arched. "Guess what this is, mama!"

"Upward dog!" I guess.

"No, cobra," he says, disappointed in my lack of expertise.

Little Dog now has the clothes hamper over his head. His ankles and feet are all that can be seen below the edge of the deep plastic bin. "Guess what this is, mama!" he insists.

"Um, hamper?" I guess.

"No! It's zombie clothes basket!" he shouts, lurching forward.

And I dissolve into laughter. I guess I never learned that pose.

An open letter to my dogs

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

Dear Dogs,

Let me start by saying I that everything I write is written with love. Really. So take it in that spirit when I ask you to knock this shit off. Please. Just knock it off. And Nikita, I see you with those big innocent eyes. Stop. We have some issues to work out.

First, the barking. You've always barked at other dogs. Fine. I get it. You're defending your territory from the possible encroachment of other dogs who just happen to be walking by. On leash. They can't sneak in. Trust me on this one. Anyhow, I'll forgive this transgression. It's the other barking. The incessant barking to be let out. See, you've punished us before when we didn't jump quickly enough by peeing in the house. You have us trained. We try to act quickly now, but I have to say it frustrates and annoys me when you rush outside just to stare at the chickens or to sniff around the yard. All of that noise and aggravation just because you want to sniff. Not cool, lady. Not cool. And then, just to keep us on our toes, if we usher you in too quickly we stand to face the pee again. It's like some kind of test, and we're failing. And as soon as we're in, the barking starts again. This will be the end of me. Can we agree we'll let you out when you bark, but you keep the unnecessary trips outside to a minimum? If you consent to this arrangement you'll likely get more time outside rather than less because we won't simply be letting you out one hundred times a night. Sound good?

But let's not forget the bread thievery. Yes, I'm talking to you Dashiell. I'm asking is that you limit your counter surfing. I get that you are tall enough to reach the counter without even stretching. It is one of the many benefits of being a Great Dane, fine. All I'm asking is that you quit stealing entire loaves of bread. Ok, I'm asking for the butter and cheese to be left unmolested as well, but let's start small. It is damn hard to pack lunches if there is no bread for sandwiches. I try to put the bread in the cabinet, but I am not perfect, occasionally I forget. And then you act. Quickly. Quietly. The only evidence you leave is the wrapper, licked clean, on the floor of my bedroom. Can't you stick to your dog food? We give you treats. We give you snacks. What the hell is so special about the bread? Nothing, that's what. So knock it off.

If you two can handle these request, I promise I'll stock the treat cabinet with all the dried bull penis a dog could ever want. What do you say? Do we have a deal?

Let's shake on it. Shake! Good dog!

I love you, my stinkies,

Laura

Dinner with the wild men

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 14:00:00 +0000

I'm a little teary-eyed after our Sunday dinner with the boys. Little Dog insisted on showing us that while he is big, he is not big enough to knock the wall down with his punches. After this he insisted that we each demonstrate our own punching power. It turns out that none of us are powerful enough to knock the walls down. We have all agreed this is a good thing since knocking the walls down would make the house fall down and since we live here, that would be a bad deal. After our wall punching experiment, Big Dog and Little Dog kept popping up to once again demonstrate a punch that, while powerful, was not powerful enough to put our shelter in danger. Once he returned to his seat, Little Dog sat banging his fists against his thighs. When we asked what he was doing, he told us it was how he kept his fist strong. It was how his fists talked.

And while this was all silly and rambunctious in the way only 3 and 6 year-olds can be, I'm already thinking about the day when they'll be too cool for this kind of crazy. They'll turn into sulky teenagers who eat in silence as I try to draw any detail about their day out of their tightly sealed lips. I remember how I was as a teenager and I am fearful for the payback I have earned.

Until then, I'm trying to bask in their exuberance the way you'd sop up really tasty sauce with a nice chunk of bread, wiping the plate clean in the process of your enjoyment. I love them so much.

The Way Back Machine

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

Back when I was pregnant with Little Dog, Big Dog was little more than a toddler. This is one of my favorite Big Dog stories from that time.

In my memory of the toddler years, Big Dog has these adorable chubby thighs and a bubble butt that needs to be patted. And I did pat it frequently. He'd always giggle as I said "pat, pat, pat" and pat-pat-patted his little bum. Fresh from the bath, while getting dressed, even if he was just roaming around in the buff as he often did back then, I couldn't help myself, and the giggle that it evoked was contagious. How could I stop? It was a thing in our house, our new house in our new city.

We'd just recently moved to Seattle and were still trying to find our way around. After becoming pregnant, I'd started looking for a doula to help me during labor since our previous experience had been so positive. My OB recommended a local doula group and, as a family, we went to an open house to check them out. Since he was not quite two at the time, Big Dog's attention easily wandered and Mr. Dog took him outside to walk up and down the sidewalk this warm summer evening while I talked more to the women who might end up assisting us in our labor.

As they walked, a trio of young women came by taking a walk enjoying the warm weather. And as they do in warm weather, these young women were very, um, lightly dressed. One of the young girls was dressed in a very short skirt as teenage girls sometimes do, because they can. They stopped for a moment when they came to where Mr. Dog was letting Big Dog roam. They cooed over the adorable blond toddler with the chubby cheeks and sparking blue eyes before they started to walk by. As they left Big Dog reached up and pat-pat-patted the short-skirted girl's bottom, saying "Pat, pat, pat," just like mommy as he did.

Luckily she had a sense of humor about my toddler's freshness.

Milkin' the birthday

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

And seriously, how can I not post a photo when he looks this ridiculously cute? Unfortunately as I write this, he looks a bit less cute. Turns out when he was telling me his tummy hurt this morning, he really meant "hey mommy, if you don't take me back home instead of dropping me off at school this morning, I'm going to vomit not once, not twice, but three separate times as they take me to the office to call you to pick me up." And no, he wasn't acting sick all morning as he argued with his brother, resisted putting his shoes on and bantered with me in the car on the way to school. This was one of those, as we parked the car, as we got ready to walk him to the playground kind of instant illnesses. I really am not one of those moms. You know the ones I mean, the ones who send sick kids to school in hopes they aren't sick enough to get sent home. I wasn't even home by the time I got the call to pick him up. They hadn't even done attendance, so I didn't even have to sign him out when I got back not more than 20 minutes after dropping him off.

I got him home, made a bed on the sofa and tucked him in. I went downstairs to get him something to drink and by the time I got back upstairs, he was out like a light. Slept solidly for the next 4 hours. And when he woke up he was back to being Big Dog, apart from the fact he didn't feel much like eating. By dinner, he was asking for sausage with extra catsup. In other words, not at all acting like a sick child. Now I just have to wait and see if he's back to spewing in the morning.

And I'm not complaining, ok, I guess I am, but I'm off work this week. My company has a shutdown and since the boys are in school and Mr. Dog is working, I had planned to just do my stuff this week. And I may be a bad mom for even saying this, but I felt a bit robbed of a day off when he got sick during my week off. I guess I'll just juggle a bit and try to fit my stuff in around taking care of my patient. I even managed to pick up an antique chair on craigslist that needed reupholstering and have spent the past three days learning the fine art of upholstery. Turns out upholstery is a lot like a a craft version of working a puzzle. I really enjoyed it, but man is it ever physically taxing. It's done now, and I love the outcome.

Birthday Surprise

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

After a sushi dinner and cake, we opened presents. Imagine my surprise when my child opened his gift from Auntie Chihuahua and found a set of Batman nunchucks. Ok, they're foam, but still? How can these not cause problems in a house already filled with brawling brothers? When he first opened them, he was excited by their Batmanliness, but didn't really know what they were. He set them aside. Then someone opened them. An adult opened them, and started to demonstrate the fine art of handling nunchucks. And you might think this was a childless person who needed to teach my children how to swing their new weapons in ways guaranteed to test both their coordination and tolerance for pain, but you'd be wrong. This person is a father to a 5 year old boy. (I immediately threatened to buy his son nunchucks of his own for Christmas.)
Big Dog was thrilled with his present at first. But with so many new presents to play with, he set these aside. And after being told they were a weapon, and they must not be used to hit people because they could hurt, Little Dog was obsessed. He seems to have taken ownership of his big brother's "toy" (consider those air quotes). He has swung them haphazardly while striking ninja poses. He has also hit himself in the face while striking ninja poses. He has attacked furniture, his brother and other toys. He does most of this while wearing his favorite Batman mask. Most notably he has devised a game in which Kanjar Ro, his latest "bad guy" action figure gets tossed up in the air, then whacked with the nunchucks. Mr. Ro has earned this, because he is evil.
Most importantly Little Dog now sleeps with the nunchucks under his pillow.
I am not looking forward to Thursday when I have to tell him we will not be bringing the Batman nunchucks to school for show and tell. I don't want to be known as the nunchucks mom. I have enough baggage as it is.
So thanks Auntie Chihuahua. I owe you one. And trust me, I will repay you.

Playing it by ear

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 14:00:00 +0000

For years I've been singing the boys to sleep. As babies we'd rock and sing until their tiny eyes closed and sleep crept in and carried them off. Sometimes I'd sing lullabies I remember being sung by my mom but more often I'd sing the boys something with a little more swing. See, I like jazz. Big band swing to be specific.

The other night, after Little Dog resisted sleep through "Them there eyes", "Deed I do", "Petootie Pie" and at least one "Hush Little Baby", I added a new song to the repertoire. This time it was "A-tiske A-tasket". I ended up singing it non-stop until he fell asleep. The next night, it was all he wanted. "The basket song." Non-stop. Until he fell asleep much, much later.

When we drove to school the next day, I decided to let him hear the original. I had loaded it on my iPod the day before, Ella Fitzgerald way back in the day with the Chick Webb Orchestra.

At first he wasn't really listening, then it sunk in. "Mama! Is that you?" he asked.

"No sweetie, that's Ella Fitzgerald. She's good, isn't she?" I asked, just mildly flattered he'd mistaken my evening singing for a jazz legend.

"No, the singing mama. It's you?"

"Nope, it's not me. It's Ella Fitzgerald. I promise. She sings much better than I do."

He finally believed me, and sat back to listen. It was a hit. We played it over and over. Then I introduced a few others from that same era that were especially kid friendly. "Chew chew chew (chew your bubblegum)", "Cow cow boogie."

After a little bit, Big Dog asked, "Is that a boy or a girl, mama?"

"It's a girl," I said, a little bit confused by the question. Couldn't he tell?

"Oh," he said, as though he didn't really believe it. "Elephant Gerald is a girl."

So they may not have an ear for names, but they do have great taste in music.

Big Six

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 22:40:00 +0000

What a big year it's been. And here we are, celebrating another year of your life. Well, Big Dog what can I say? Once again you have spent a year filling me with pride and adoration. And maybe some occasional frustration as you show you have inherited my very wide stubborn streak and assert your independence more and more. And even in those moment, you are my light.

You are gentle and sweet, silly and strong. Your teachers have always commented on your happy disposition and loving nature. They've also commented on your thirst for knowledge and concentration on subjects that capture your imagination. I've delighted in our conversations as you ask questions to try to figure out the world around you. Your ability to take information and apply it to many situation shows me you will never be short of problem solving skills, even as you melt into tears of frustration because you refuse to ask for help.

This year you started Kindergarten! What a change. For as much as you do in class, it still surprises me how little you talk about it when you get home. You'd much prefer to tell me about your after school program, which makes me feel at least a little silly for worrying so much about you adjusting to all of the newness.

Little Dog looks up to you and tries to mimic your every action. It's adorable, and the way you think of him and try to make every race a tie, every contest a draw almost offsets the out and out brutality of your fights! I'm still getting used to that, though I've been reassured you two are completely in line with other brothers of your ages. Sigh.

Your soft spot seems to be for animals. You love your Nikita, showering her with kisses and hugs. And she loves you right back. The chickens have been such surprise hit. I thought their appeal might fade once they were no longer fuzzy chicks, but you still delight in letting them out every morning, greeting them each by name. "Good morning, Odile. Good morning, Chicky Roboto. Good morning, Chicky-chicky-chicky. Good morning, Drumstick." Collecting the eggs has been another source of your contagious joy as your face breaks into a full grin as soon as you see an egg in the next box.

And there have been some difficult moments this year too. You set your expectations of yourself so high. You don't accept your own perceived failures and refuse to understand that learning involves stretching that can sometime feel frustrating. Things usually come easy to you, but as you advance you see there is so much you don't know yet. I hope you learn to give yourself the room to not always be perfect, because that burden is too much for anyone, let alone a 6 year old boy.

I love you, big guy. Happy birthday. I can't wait to see what this new year brings for you and see all the challenges and changes. Watch how you adapt and grow. Just don't grow up too quickly, ok?

25 Hours (installment #2)

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 04:13:00 +0000

When I woke up, for good, not just for a minute of contracting, I met my labor and delivery nurse. I like to call her Nurse Ratched. Not to her face. That would have resulted in even more pain, and possibly shock therapy. I didn't need that. Anyhow, when we met, I explained that I had a birth plan in my bag. She pretty much scoffed. And that was my first indication that this was not going to be a match made in heaven.

As my doula had warned me, the hospital I was to deliver in was more or less split into two halves. There was an "old" half and a "new" half. The old half was the original part of the labor and deliver ward. The nurses there tended to be more old school and more accustomed to patients who came in demanding an epidural. They were more interventive and didn't really give much credence to "natural childbirth". The new half was where they expanded the maternity ward. The nurses there tended to be more ready to work with patients, like me, who came prepped with doulas and birth plans and goals of drug-free deliveries. Unfortunately for me, I wound up in the old half. With a nurse who reminded me of a grouchy substitute teacher. But I had a doula. I had a plan. And I can be pretty freakin' stubborn. So I didn't worry much. I probably would have worried more if I had heard her say when she said to Mr. Dog, "This baby is going to be born before the end of my shift." Luckily I didn't.

Once the pitocin was started, my very regular contractions went wild. Instead of every 5 minutes, they were coming at odd intervals, sometimes a minute, sometimes 3, never more than 5 but usually much less. And they were irregular lengths. One would be 30 seconds, the next over a minute. At one point they more or less started to blur together, each contraction just mildly backing off before the new wave of pain washed over me. Mr. Dog was right there, functioning with no sleep from the prior night, he was amazing. He coached me through each contraction, he rubbed my back, he stroked my hair. He did all of the things a good husband does when his wife is in pain. And Nurse Ratchet kept the pitocin coming.

At one point, Nurse Rached offered to take me to the shower to see if it would help ease the pain a bit. I agreed, but was halted as a new contraction took hold. As I stood there, holding my IV pole trying to breathe through the pain, she snapped at me, "I have other patients. If you want to take a shower, you need to do it now." Again her inner bitch was peeking out. It reared its head again later when she nearly came to blows with my doula over who would get me some juice. Seriously. It was that inane.

Hours later, after more than 13 hours of the unrelenting contractions, which I later learned were actually considered back labor, my OB came in to check me. I was 1.5 cm and 70% effaced. Yep. After all this time I was still where I was when I started out the night before. I was exhausted. I was frustrated and yet, I was stubborn.

"Do you want something for the pain?" she asked.

"No, I don't want any medication."

"Are you sure, this baby is not likely to come anytime this afternoon," she said, in a thoroughly non-pushy way.

"I don't want an epidural. What are the other options?" asked the girl who didn't bother to read up on pain control medications because I was going for a natural birth.

"Well, you can have fentynal."

"Ok, I'll take that," I said, but maybe a little too quickly.

"It will take the edge off, but it doesn't last long."

"Fine," I said as the next contraction began to grow.

"And I can only give it to you three times during your entire labor."

"Oh," I said as the pain intensified.

I lasted another hour unmedicated. When she asked again, I caved. "I want an epidural."

So they called the anesthesiologist. An on call anesthesiologist arrived about a half hour later. Turns out by the time I decided I'd had enough, I was at the end of a list of laboring moms in a similar state of mind. The hospital was full to capacity with pregnant women. When she arrived she talked me through the procedure, but I have to admit I don't remember much of it. I was riding a series of contractions that never fully ended, just ebbed a bit before the next big peak of pain. They prepped me, positioned me and she inserted the needle into my back just as a new surge of pain took over. Within a few minutes, it brought an end to my labor pain. And to my ability to feel my feet. Or move anything below my boobs. While I wasn't in pain anymore, I felt strange, and helpless. And that made me kind of scared. But before I knew it, I was asleep. When I woke up an hour later I was at 6 cm. Nurse Ratched's shift ended and I sighed a sigh of relief. I lolled around a bit, then dozed off again. When I awoke, I was at 10 cm ready to push. Finally.

Since I was completely numb and unable to move on my own, Mr. Dog, my doula and the nurse moved me into position. Once we were good to go, I began pushing. The first few were hard. Being so numb got in the way of feeling what I was doing. I wasn't sure if I was pushing the way I needed to and didn't know when the urge was there or not. Then I got the hang of it. Within the first half hour I was getting all kinds of encouragement. "That's great!" "We can see the head!" "You're almost there!" "Just a couple more like that and you'll meet your baby!" But it didn't seem to go anywhere. I pushed, they cheered, I pushed, they cheered. And since I was positioned where I could see a clock, I watched the time slip by. One hour. Two hours. Two and a half hours. Then the pain set in. I'd run out of medication in my epidural. And if you don't know anything about epidurals, once you get one, your own body quits producing endorphins to help you through the pain. If it runs out, the pain just comes crashing back down on top of you. And when you aren't exactly logical due to pain, you just might try to refuse more medication. I still don't really understand why I tried that. But I did. I think it was because the feeling of being so numb scared me. It was like being paralyzed, completely unable to feel my own limbs. Once they calmed me down, and recharged the epidural, I took a break from pushing. Not long, just enough to try to prepare mentally for the challenge and give myself a little rest. Soon I was back in the pushing groove. I pushed, they cheered, I pushed and once again nothing seemed to happen. Until it did. And then he was born. My son. My Big Dog. And he was perfect.

Ok, maybe his head was a bit pointy from the experience. And maybe I thought it looked like he didn't have a chin, but I was overwhelmed. I'd really wanted a boy, and yet I was convinced I was having a girl. Either would have been welcome, but when they handed me my son it felt like the most amazing gift.

The discovered when he emerged that he was face up, which is likely what made my labor so long and his delivery so difficult. And on his way out, his head had been pushed against my pelvic bones so he could not exit easily. In fact, he was born with a sore on his head where I'd been pushing his skull against bone for the last 3 1/2 hours.

And that's that how it happened. But don't think I'll ever forget about the 25 hours of labor I endured to receive the gift of a lifetime.

25 hours (installment #1)

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

Six years ago today I was waiting. Waiting for my first child to make an appearance. And I wasn't really ready yet. I'd decided to take three of the four weeks of disability leave available prior to my due date and though, because this was my firs child, I'd have that time and more to get my act together. On Monday I ran errands and wiped myself out completely. Tuesday Mr. Dog suggested, strongly, that I stay home and rest a bit. I had lots of time to finish the preparations for our baby, why not get a little rest before the baby arrived? It sounded like a great idea, so I spent Tuesday laying around our apartment not doing much of anything. Wednesday was supposed to be another flurry of activity. I had stuff I needed to get done, and as I laid in bed that morning, I was ticking through my to do list for the day. Then, as very pregnant women frequently do, I needed to pee. So I swung my feet off the edge of the bed and my plans changed. "Um, I think my water just broke," I said, to Mr. Dog, still a little concerned that maybe I'd just peed my bed.

"Ok, so what are we supposed to do?" he asked, giving me the first bit of proof that the extended natural childbirth classes we'd taken had little or no benefit.

"I think we call the doctor," I said, sifting through the pregnancy related information in my brain that reminded me that the whole idea of your water breaking as the first sign of labor may be dramatic, but is far more common on TV than it is in reality, but finding no logical next step should this happen to an actual pregnant woman.

So we did. I called the OB's office and explained that my water had broken. No, I had no contractions, yes the fluid was clear, yes the baby was moving and yes, I'll call back if any of that changes. I was instructed to keep moving around, drink plenty of liquids and wait for the contractions to start. If my contractions hadn't kicked in by 7:00 pm, 12 hours after my water broke, I was to go to Labor and Delivery.

I sincerely expected my contractions to start any minute. I called my doula so she would be on guard and we chatted a bit about ways to get things going. I'd thought had a few more weeks, but I was excited to meet my tiny passenger face to face.

I took a shower, made sure my bag was packed, realized I was missing several key items, and set off to run a few errands. Mr. Dog called in to work and we went about our day, just waiting for those strong contractions to start any minute now. We took a walk, went out to lunch, bought pajamas for the hospital stay and picked up the nursing bra that my doula had listed on my "Things to pack for the hospital" list.

By early afternoon we'd completed our to do list, and there were still no contractions. We were home, mentally preparing for our evening trip to the hospital when the phone rang. The on call doctor for our practice had changed, and the new doctor on call, the one who was known for being highly interventive, changed the game plan. Come in now. Go to the hospital now and we're going to induce you. I freaked out. My plan, the plan I'd ran through repeatedly as I read my Ina May book, as I'd written my birth plan, as I scoffed at the sections of the pregnancy books that described the pain mediations and interventions in great detail, was to wait until labor was well underway, get to the hospital and with the assistance of my husband and the knowledge and skills of my doula, deliver my child drug free. An induction did not fit into the plan. Not at all. Mr. Dog called our doula while I cried. I sobbed as we packed up the car with everything we thought we needed to have this baby. I cried as we drove across town to the hospital. I wept as I sat in a hospital gown and they took my blood pressure, tested my fluid to confirm my water had broken and was monitored to make sure the baby was healthy and strong.

It was my blood pressure that caused concern. It was high. Really high. They decided to draw blood to confirm their suspicions that I had preeclampsia and while they waited for results I was checked into a birthing suite to begin preparations for my induction. "Fine," I thought. "If this is the night I'm going to meet my baby, this is going to be a good night," and I tried to pull myself together. I called my family in Oregon to let them know the baby was coming. I settled down and when the results for my bloodwork came back completely unremarkable, they took my blood pressure again. It was back to being normal. Actually low, because that's how I roll.

The doctor came in and in her perky OB prepping the excited parents to be for the night of their lives way said, "Are you ready to begin the induction?"

"Actually I didn't want to be induced," I replied, feeling a bit like the decision had been foisted upon me, but trying to be ok with it.

She looked over my chart and then looked at me and said, "Well your blood pressure is down, it isn't preeclampsia, so if you don't want to be induced, you can go home and see what happens tonight. Just come back in the morning if you still haven't gone into labor."

I actually passed my doula on her way to the hospital as we walked out on our way back to the car. We agreed that I'd go home and hope for contractions. Keep our fingers crossed, and I'd most likely be calling her sometime that night.

And we were wrong. I slept poorly. I focused on every little twinge thinking "Is this it?" "How about now?" "Or now." And when 7:00 am rolled around I was no more in labor than I was the night before.

The OB's office called a few minutes later, asking where I was. I was supposed to be back at the hospital being prepped for an induction. I was frustrated and pissy and I still didn't want to be induced. I agreed to show up, but as soon as I hung up the phone I called my doula for support. We talked about my options. One turning point for me was when she reminded me that I was in charge here. If I didn't want to be induced, they couldn't force me. I was worried that my stubborness was risky for the baby. She mentioned that the midwives she worked with let group B strep negative women go as long as 72 hours after their water breaking without being induced. I decided I'd compromise. Give me 36 hours to get this started naturally, then I'd be go ahead with the induction if it came to that. I called the office back and negotiated. I got them to agree to my plan. If I come in now, you can monitor me, make sure the baby is ok and we can talk, but I'm not going to be induced. If I check out ok, I'm walking out and doing everything in my power to get this baby moving naturally. If by 7 pm, I'm still not in labor, I'll come on in and be induced. No argument, no protest.

We headed to the hospital for monitoring and met our doula there. We presented a unified front in the medial office and got no pushback from the doctors. After I was poked and prodded, the baby was confirmed healthy and I parroted back the signs that would be cause for concern, I went home. I talked Mr. Dog into going to work. I'd call him when I was having contractions, otherwise he'd be home in plenty of time to make our 7 pm induction.

Then I set my plan into action. I was going to walk this baby out of my body. I called Stan and he agreed to come with me. We walked over the hill from the Mission to Noe Valley. No contractions. While we were in Noe Valley we decided to get pedicures. We walked into our regular nail salon and asked for the massage chair stations. The owner hesitated. "She's pregnant. We can't use those for pregnant women," she said. And Stan, in classic Stan form, sprang into action. "You know, if you're worried about her going into labor, don't. After we're done here, she's going to the hospital to be induced. You'd be doing her a giant favor if this chair started her labor." And she relented.

An hour later, with beautiful toes and still no labor, we went back to my apartment. I called my doula and she advised me to eat a big dinner. "You're going to be working hard and they won't let you eat during labor at the hospital. Eat something now becuse you're going to need the fuel." So I hit BiRite. I got a meal from their deli and chowed down. I was going to have a baby! I needed my carbs!

We called the hospital to let them know we were coming and got a surprise. They were full. We were told to wait an hour then come over. We did, and when we got there, they were still full. We sat in the reception area for a while, then finally got shown to my labor and delivery room.

After getting settled, the doctor arrived and checked me. I was 1.5 cm and 70% effaced. Not great. I told her I was opposed to using misoprostol for induction, one of the many facts I'd gleaned in the past 24 hours of "Oh shit I'm going to be induced" reading. So she started the induction with cervidil to "ripen" my cervix. (yeah, that phrase still freaks me out.) Then she suggested I take a sleeping pill so I'd get a good night sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a very busy day. I obliged and not long later I was drowsy and drifting off to sleep. Then I felt it. My first contraction. It was a biggie. 1 minute long, intense and strong. Mr. Dog helped me through it and at the end of it, I fell asleep. I woke up 5 minutes later for another contraction. And every five minutes there after. All. Night. Long. Mr. Dog, who did not have the benefit of a sleeping pill likes to tell me how I'd wake up from being sound asleep for each contraction. He said, he knew the contraction was over when I started snoring again.

In the morning, I woke up, the contractions still coming strong and regular and they started my pitocin.

to be continued...

O the memories (Trader Joe's Os that is)

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

This morning the boys had their breakfast of Trader Joe's Os at the dining table with their dad. As they munched away I had one of those flashback kind of memories from when Big Dog was a toddler. Back before Little Dog was born, back before we moved to Seattle, back before we were old hands at this parenting thing.

When Big Dog was just over a year old he was a pretty good eater. One thing he especially liked was a nice bowl of Os. But not just any Os. His father's Os. As soon as Mr. Dog would pour himself a bowl, Big Dog would drop whatever he was doing and speed waddle off to the kitchen to grab himself a spoon. Then he'd climb up on Mr. Dog's lap and help him eat his snack. The thought of it still makes me smile.

Now this diapered baby of my memories is a tall and strong boy. He doesn't waddle when he runs. He doesn't need help finding a spoon in the drawer. He sits in his own chair and confidently feed himself. And yet, even nearly 5 years later, he will still swipe your snack in a heartbeat. As much as things change, some thing stay the same.

Things you never expect to hear from a child

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

"Mama, next time you need to make the cookies smaller. These are too big!" says a teary eyed Big Dog in a voice wavering under the weight of his frustration. He'd had a long day and the size of the after dinner cookie seemed to be the straw that broke the camel's back. Too much cookie was just too much.

In my defense, I followed the recipe down to the point of weighing the cookie dough mounds prior to baking. This is how big the cookies were meant to be. To be completely honest, they were kind of huge, but given how delicious they are, you'd think it was a good thing. But when you're 5 years and you're too tired and you can't finish your treat, even the bounty of deliciousness can turn into a point of exasperation.

Last night I baked up another batch of cookies, but this time I scaled them back by nearly half. They were still good sized, but not as giant as the previous night's cookies. After eating up his cookie, Big Dog snuggled next to me on the couch. With his head on my shoulder, he looked up and patted my cheek loving as he said in his honeyed voice, "Mama, those cookies were just the right size. Please make all cookies that size forever." And I said I would. These are the lessons I learn from my kid. It's the little things that count in parenting, like cookie size.

The neverending story (or at least it feels like it)

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

Mr. Dog has very few vices. He does not stay out late carousing, not does he treat me badly, spend too much money or chase women. He is a good man, a good husband and a good dad. There are very few things Mr. Dog does that drive me batty. Unless football is on. Then he becomes a different man. No, he does not stay out late, or treat me badly, or spend money or chase women. He does, however, yell at the TV. He also becomes completely deaf to the world going on around him. I could burn the house down around him, and he probably wouldn't notice until it was too late. The children could tear apart the room, get into forbidden things or disappear completely and he'd be oblivious until the game ended. And we have Tivo. So on Sunday this is not just for one game. It is for all of the games. All day long and into the night.
I don't complain too much. Well, I try not to complain too much. Like I said before, if football is is vice, it really isn't a bad one. It makes him happy and I try to keep that in mind as I will myself not to scratch my own eyes out of their sockets. (There is really only so much football I can stand to watch.)

Bitten

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 14:00:00 +0000

A few days ago a friend of mine posted a link to the San Francisco symphony's Halloween concert. To celebrate the day, they'll be providing live music for the classic vampire film, Nosferatu. If I still lived in the Bay Area, I'd be there in a heartbeat. Alas, I do not.

As I was reading about it, Little Dog appeared over my shoulder.

"Who is dat?" he asked, his voice filled with awe.

"That's a vampire. Nosferatu!" I said, in the creepiest voice I could muster. Then for good measure I added a chomp, well, an air chomp. (I'm not completely depraved)

"Oooh." he said, his eyes getting wide. "Moss-ver-ba-tu," followed by an air chomp of his own.

And with that, we created our own little act.

"Guess what I am?" I ask. He giggles, then I say "nosferatu!" and chomp at him. Then he takes a turn.

Big Dog got brought into the exchange pretty quickly, since Little Dog dragged him into the room and demanded I show him the Nosferatu picture on Facebook.

The scene evolved into the three of us sitting at the table taking turns being Nosferatu (or moss-ver-bat-tu as the case may be) and chomping then me getting designated as "Mommy Nasferatu!" chomp! And Mr. Dog rolling his eyes.

Yeah, we're that kind of family.

A Birthday Wish

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

Not long ago I received an email from Kevin at Always Home and Uncool asking me to help raise awareness of an autoimmune disorder his daughter had been diagnosed with 7 years ago today. After reading his story, reading about the illness and seeing the photos of his beautiful daughter, there was no way I could refuse. If you can, please make a donation at the link below. And after you read this, please go hug your kids. You'll want to.

*********

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter’s cheeks, joints and legs was something he’d never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn’t admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions — none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner — then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn’t know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter’s knee showed signs of an “allergic reaction” even though we had ruled out every allergy source — obvious and otherwise — that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of thephysical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift — a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago — Oct. 2, 2002 — the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter’s first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn’t tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don’t know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter’s condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go towww.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever orwww.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.

Lessons in agriculture

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

Mr. Dog picked Little Dog up from school today and on the way to the house they passed the now fading garden. The fence that once teemed with bean plants is strung with dried vines and withered beans.

"Where did the beans go?" asked Little Dog.

"They're here," said Mr. Dog plucking a dried bean from the vine, "They've dried. They're bean seeds now."

Little Dog looked at the bean thoughtfully and Mr. Dog handed him the seed.

"What can you do with it?" he asked

"Well, you can plant them and grow new beans next year. Do you want to show it to mama? Or you could take it to school tomorrow and show your friends the bean you grew," Mr. Dog suggested.

Little Dog continued to stare the the bean in his hand, this little seed that could grow into a big vine like the one we had this summer. He held the bean between his thumb and index finger as he examined it further.

"What are you going to do with it?" asked Mr. Dog.

Little Dog considered this a moment, then with a new certainty put the bean up his nose.