From Stage Dives to Station Wagons

Life on a treadmill

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Brother

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Family, our way

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What passes for romance these days

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

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

The verdict is in

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, thank YOU!

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

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

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

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

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

Indoctrination

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

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

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

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

My very own, punk rock baby circa 2006

In praise of friendship

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

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

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

The show must go on

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rude Awakenings or The Case Against Bunk Beds

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

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

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

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

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

Begging for votes again

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

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

And the eye rolling begins

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

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

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

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

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

Grab Bag: Just write

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

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

Grab Bag: Stolen

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 01:01:00 +0000

Today was the second Tuesday in my sabbatical. My plans were to spend this time with two goals, writing and fitness, two things I have frequently neglected as I juggle work, motherhood and life in general. Unfortunately as I ran on the treadmill (or perhaps as I unfortunately ran on the treadmill since I am not a graceful runner) my phone rang, it was Mr. Dog calling to let me know that Little Dog arrived at school without his backpack today. Well, technically he said that Little Dog forgot his backpack, but when it comes down to it the adult that delivers the children to the school is responsible for making sure they have all of their required accessories, but that's all just details at this point. The fact was that Little Dog had no backpack and thus, no lunch. I was required to cut my run short and deliver the forgotten item. After I dropped off the lunch, I ended up helping out in the lunchroom before heading home.

When I got near the house, I picked up the required foods to make dinner then got ready to write. About that time, my phone rang. Big Dog was in the office not feeling well. I needed to pick him up. I set aside my writing and drove to the school only to discover I'd given the booster seat from Mr. Dog's car to my car this morning in order to help transport a friend to school. I called the school to let them know there was a glitch in the pick up but I'd be back before too long. I got a booster, picked up Big Dog and took him home.

He really wasn't feeling well, I got him settled in my bed, rearranged my pilates class scheduled for tomorrow morning and cancelled any other appointments that might be disrupted by me having a sick child at home. Once this work was done, I picked the laptop up thinking I could at least put some of the ideas I'd had brewing in my head onto paper before they disappeared into my thought abyss. I was just getting started when the phone rang. It was the after school program. Apparently Little Dog was having a bad afternoon and had decided it was a great idea to shove a kid who was pissing him off. After shoving the kid he refused to talk to the counselors about what happened, so they were asking me to pick him up.

Again, I set aside my writing work and picked up my errant child. So much for today, maybe tomorrow will be more productive. At any rate, today was not a great day for focusing on my goals. Being a mother, while amazing for sure, has a special way of stealing time from other pursuits. I went from being rich with "me time" to being a mom-taxi in just three phone calls. Top that.

As a theme for the Grab Bag today, I want to hear about something you have had stolen. It can be a real object or something less tangible (for example, my stolen day).

Link back in the comments and grab the code below for your post.

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Hitting the showers

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 19 Sep 2011 14:04:00 +0000

Last night I had decided the boys needed to bathe. Unfortunately on the way home from our sushi dinner, the battle in the backseat got so annoying I didn't feel comfortable letting them share the tub. I feared that if they continued to harass each other with the same ferocity I witnessed in the car, I'd be called in every 2 minutes to referee and there goes my quiet wine drinking time. So I suggested they bathe separately. Better yet, I suggested they try showering.

They were suspicious at first, they'd never showered at home and I guess the showers at the swimming pool didn't quite register as bathing in their minds. After a moment of discussion, Little Dog agreed.
"So, you guys are going to take a shower instead of a bath," I said more than asked.
"That'll be manly!" replied Little Dog.
"Really? Manly?" I asked.
"Yes, showers are manly," he agreed. "I'm going to be a manly man."
"Um, ok," I said, "You know I take showers too, right?"
"Baths are girly."

I'm not quite sure where he gets this stuff, but it comes in such a constant stream it's hard not to quote him.

Taking a quiet stand

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Sat, 17 Sep 2011 04:20:00 +0000

I was recently told that Washington state law requires public school teachers to "recognize the flag" once a day. And while this gives me amusing mental images of a teacher walking into the room, looking at the flag, a flash of confusion followed by that once daily recognition, in most classroom this recognition takes the form of the pledge of allegiance. This has become an issue for Little Dog.

I personally think this is kind of a silly practice for a number of reasons. First, this is just a little pledge that was in a children's magazine at one point that took hold and now is a piece of our national tradition. Something about that origin makes it difficult for me to take it seriously. Second, the addition of "under God" bothers me to no end. For a country that claims to adore our separation of church and state, this line seems out of step. Sure it doesn't specify any one god, but we know who it assumes to mean and as an agnostic American who is also highly sensitive to issues of other cultures, I find this offensive. Third, and probably most importantly, they are asking 5 year old children to pledge allegiance to a flag. They don't know what a pledge is or what allegiance is, and even if they did, how useful is the allegiance of a group of 5-year olds? I can hardly count on mine to put his own shoes on and he's pretty committed to me. But this post isn't about me. It's about Little Dog.

Last night as I lay crashed out in our bed, listening to Mr. Dog put the boys to bed in the next room, I caught snippets of a serious conversation. It turns out Little Dog does not like that he is asked to say the pledge of allegiance each day. He does not want to do it. I had a sudden swelling of pride in my little man. I loved his not wanting to blindly pledge allegiance to things he doesn't understand and having his own visceral reaction to group oaths of any sort. Mr. Dog tried to explain that while it is ok not to like saying it, the pledge itself is not bad. It doesn't hurt anyone and it just basically uses the flag as a symbol of our country. It isn't asking you to do anything bad or harmful. It is more or less benign.

That didn't change Little Dog's mind at all. He doesn't like saying it. He doesn't want to say it but he has to. Mr. Dog told him he could tell his teacher he didn't want to say it, and that it probably wouldn't be a big deal. Not good enough. He said that Mr. Z told them they had to say it. The whole class does. So Mr. Dog suggested Little Dog ask Mr. Z why they said the pledge. Mr. Z is a really great guy and I think he would have had a good discussion with the kids about this, but Little Dog again declined.

Another interesting point in the conversation revolved around the "under God" part that bothers me so. Big Dog asked "Is God real?" to which Mr. Dog apparently answered "I don't know." This is completely in keeping with our own beliefs, though I think Mr. Dog really is more atheist than agnostic. I think we're giving the kids some space to come up with their own beliefs and enough ambiguity to help them give others room to believe what they choose to believe.

But back to the pledge. Today I tried to coach Little Dog into having a little conversation with his teacher about not wanting to say the pledge. Not so much because I thought he needed to talk it out, but mostly because I played his teacher's reaction back in my mind and it made me giggle. My plan was to teach him to say, "I am uncomfortable with the pledge. I am too young to pledge allegiance to anything. I need more life experience before I make this kind of commitment," but true to form, he refused to learn my little line of chatter and demanded that I talk to his teacher.

You may wonder why such a small child has such an oppositional reaction to the pledge. It's simple. They say the pledge to the flag. Flags are not people. Talking to flags is weird. Only crazy people do that. At least you can't fault his logic.

Note: Today as the kids lined up for class I told Mr. Z that Little Dog was uncomfortable talking to the flag, he didn't think it was rational behavior and so he would rather not say the pledge. Mr. Z chuckled and told me that while he was required to recognize the flag each day, he also tells the kids they don't have to say it if they don't want to. If they opt out, they just need to stand quietly as the others say the pledge. I guess Little Dog just chose to ignore that part of the lesson and instead stir up a little controversy. I guess he really is my kid.

Just to be clear, he DOES NOT have to say the pledge. He can stand quietly while the children who wish say the pledge do so.

10 Years

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 19:05:00 +0000

Ten years ago to day I made the wisest decision in my life. Surrounded by friends and family, in the beauty of the Shakespeare Garden in Golden Gate Park, I married my best friend. And I'd do it all over again. Dave, thank you for being mine. I will always love you more than zombies love brains.

Grab Bag: Changes

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 13 Sep 2011 20:03:00 +0000

This week's Grab Bag up and ready for your blogging pleasure over at Great Little Stories.
Check it out!

Ten years later

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 22:43:00 +0000

I've written about 9/11 before. Each year as the anniversary of the tragic events approaches, so does the anniversary of my wedding. I've written about being deeply distraught as I read the obituaries in the New York Times for each of the people confirmed dead in the twin towers and at the same time being unable to stop reading as though by acknowledging the uniqueness of each individual I would somehow make their death less meaningless. I've written about the attacks looking back on that terrible day and the uncertain and grief-filled weeks that followed, but as I think about it today, what strikes me is how much our daily lives have changed in the past ten years.

I grew up during the cold war era, as many of us did. I remember living under the looming threat of a nuclear war. I remember fearing the Soviet Union and the weapons that could bring life as we know it to a halt. Movies like Red Dawn, terrible as they were, were terrifying because they felt possible to kids my age. I remember the day when a friend's mother fell asleep while watching TV and later woke with news reports of a nuclear attack playing on the screen. She was panic stricken, trying to understand just where this had happened and desperate to get her child home quickly and safely from school so they would at least be together as the world came down around them. It wasn't until she switched channels a few minutes later to see if there was local news reports about what the schools were doing to get kids home that she realized the "news" she had been watching were part of an HBO movie. But it felt real because we believed it was possible. I remember being a teenage activist, heading up our school's own "Beyond War" club in hopes of avoiding the end of the world in a mushroom cloud. And I remember doing this with an intensity and passion that feels a little silly to me as I type this now.

But the world changed and the Soviet Union dissolved and what once seemed so imminent and oppressive, became part of history instead of a part of our daily lives. And while there were acts of terrorism and wars in the years that came after, the idea of a single evil nation, always just a step away from destroying us just faded away.

And then there was 9/11. In the years since, I believe we have all been waiting for the next shoe to drop. The attacks were on US soil and caused previously unimaginable destruction and loss of life. We've been fighting a war on terrorism that has continues to increase that body count. The images from the ever-present news coverage have become part of our national anxiety. And the feeling that we are no longer safe, even at home, has returned.

My children were both born after 9/11. They have never known a time when we did not have a color-coded national threat level. They have never flown without thorough airport screenings. Heck, they've never flow with a pair of nail clippers in our bag. They have grown up in the era of the Patriot Act, where civil liberties have been compromised in favor of the illusion of security. They have grown up with the annual news barrage of 9/11 coverage that brings those terrifying images to into our homes and minds again and again. They have grown up in USA that knows attacks can take place in our most vibrant and populated cities, and fears that this could happen again any day.

Today as I left the house with the boys to attend a birthday party on a sunny Seattle afternoon, I heard "Taps" playing in the background from where Mr. Dog was watching football. My eyes started to fill with tears as once again I remember snippets of the obituaries in the NY Times. A father, a cook, a mother, a son, a wife...so many stories of loss, so much grief. I stopped what I was doing, held temporarily still in that memory. Little Dog grabbed my hand and said, "What, mom?"
"Just listening to that music. It's very sad. Depressing," I answered and began ushering the boys out the door. I think they're still a bit too young to talk about the actual events 9/11 in any meaningful way. I don't know how I'd even present it to them. All I know is we are living an era of post-9/11 grief, fear and loss that has changed everything.

First days

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 16:12:00 +0000

Wednesday marked the first day of Seattle Public Schools for the 2011-12 school year. We'd been counting down for a while, but those last couple of weeks seemed to fly by at an accelerated rate leaving me running around the house looking for the school supplies I'd purchased over the summer early that morning instead of my more usually uptight routine of getting everything prepared and organized the night before. Despite my lack of order, I did start the morning with the tradition of homemade cinnamon rolls, so the boys awoke to a house that smelled of yeast and spices instead of the sound of an alarm. I figure that's always a good way to start a new adventure.

Big Dog was up and dressed first. He loves school and his countdown to the first day was more of an excited exercise in patience. He looks forward to returning to the classroom the way most kids look forward to the first day of summer, and while I may not have had the same experience in my education, it is a joy as a parent to have your child up, dressed and geared up to go with plenty of extra time with no coercion or nagging required. Granted, he didn't decide to dress himself in the picture-ready outfit I'd selected, opting instead for his KEXP t-shirt with the "I power KEXP" engine drawing and a pair of grey shorts, so he could look like his favorite Mario Karts character, Robotio. But I guess when they get old enough to care about what they wear you have to let them choose, even if it isn't quite what you'd choose for them.

Little Dog was not quite as excited. Despite spending the previous morning at the school volunteering with the PTSA to help him warm up, he was nervous. He did get up and dressed once the time came, but it was with some apprehension that he prepared for his day. The night before we'd had a talk about school and he once again told me emphatically that he hated school. I tried to remind him that kindergarten was very different from his preschool, that kindergarten was a place for big kids to learn and grow and that his preschool just wasn't ready for a kid who wanted to learn so much. I asked him to keep an open mind and try to think of kindergarten as a new thing, something exciting and fun. He promised he would after his brother piped in reminding him that his teacher, Mr. Z was "really cool and funny".

I packed the boys and their bags of school supplies, their lunches and their backpacks into the station wagon and Mr. Dog followed us in his car. Once we arrived we decided to head to the classrooms and drop off the heavy loads of supplies straightaway then hit the playground before first bell rang. When the bell rang, it was time to drop the kids at their classrooms. Since one classroom was on the 1st floor and the other on the 3rd, this was a situation that required us to divide and conquer. Mr. Dog asked Little Dog which parent he'd like to have drop him at his classroom and to both of our surprise he opted for Mr. Dog. I handed the camera to Mr. Dog and took Big Dog upstairs where after getting into his seat and allowing me to take a couple of photos with my phone, Big Dog told me it was time for me to go. He was all settled and I should leave. Talk about feeling useless.

I got one more peek at Little Dog in his classroom before I headed off, feeling slightly sad that I was now a mother of two school aged boys. There was something more substantial about the drop off for my baby than I remember about Big Dog starting school, but I can't really say why.

At lunch I volunteered in the lunchroom. Those first weeks for kindergartners are challenging. Even just opening all of the things found in a typical lunch can be a struggle, so I opened juice boxes, string cheese and fruit leather packages. I took lids off of lunch containers that were tricky for little hands and I fetched forks, spoons and napkins for those who needed them. Little Dog only asked once to go home with me, but after I explained the he still had more school he accepted it and I left as he headed out to the playground. On my way out of the building, I crossed paths with his teacher who told me that Little Dog had been testing the rules a little, not always listening and sometimes doing just the opposite of what he was asked to do. I told him that sounded a lot like Little Dog and gave him some suggestions on what works best for our little challenge. I also crossed paths with Big Dog's teacher who gave him a glowing review. He's so cooperative and works very hard! Not surprising there either. Teachers love Big Dog, he's a teacher-pleaser by nature, but it is still nice to hear.

When I picked the boys up from their after-school program I talked to the director who I have grown to know pretty well over the past few years. He told me that Little Dog had a bit of a meltdown when he first arrived, but it passed quickly. They weren't really sure what had caused it but he was fine now.

I collected him up and told him we were going home and that he could just sit quietly and watch a cartoon if he wanted. He gave me a GIANT hug and told me I was the best mommy ever (something that always makes my heart swell- in a good way, not a needs-antibiotics way).

On the way home I asked how he liked school, half expecting a poor report, a lack of desire to return and a plea to stay home with me instead. You can imagine my surprise when he said, "Best day ever. I'm happy this is my new school!" Just as Big Dog did, he talked a lot about Mr. D, the PE teacher (remind me to do something nice for this man who has made both of my boys so happy on their first day of kindergarten!) but when pressed for specifics of the day in his classroom also couldn't remember the details. Apparently the drinking water at this school contains some sort of powerful amnestic that causes children to be unable to provide satisfying color commentary on their days away from their parents. Or at least that's my theory.

We had two more days this week, each day received a similar rating, though there was a bit more of a fight getting out of the car for morning drop off on Friday. It has been refreshing considering my assumptions that this would be a similar battle to our old preschool days. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the new challenges and more structured learning will continue to keep him engaged and happy. I've also decided to make a change in my approach to school. I'm not going to be the mom who digs for insight from their teachers. I'll be there to support the boys, I'll volunteer and if asked, I'll help solve issues that arise for either boy, but I'm not going to be the mom who is constantly mining for issues either. I'm going to assume that Little Dog is somewhere in the range of normal when it comes to adapting to kindergarten and also assume that his teacher is skilled in managing that adjustment. I won't let myself worry that he is going to be difficult or be traumatized by his experiences. In other words, I'm going to stop looking for trouble. I think it might be the healthiest thing I've decided in ages.

Different

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 05:29:00 +0000

Tomorrow I'll be taking Little Dog to start kindergarten.
We'll wake up in the morning, just like I did with Big Dog.
We'll eat first-day-of-school cinnamon rolls in our jammies, just like I did with Big Dog.
We'll get dressed in the first day of school outfit, just like I did with Big Dog.
We'll collect up the required school supplies, just like I did with Big Dog.
We'll get the specially packed lunch complete with a little note to tell him I love him, just like I did with Big Dog.
We'll get into the car and drive to school, just like I did with Big Dog.
We'll take lots of photos before we even get to the classroom, just like I did with Big Dog.
We'll find his seat and get him settled, just like I did with Big Dog.
We'll take so many more photos his eyes will roll and he'll wish me out of the room to start his day, just like I did with Big Dog.
We'll go to the library for the PTSA coffee while still trying to get my head around how it is possible I have a child old enough to be attending public school (much less two!), just like I did with Big Dog.
We'll collect ourselves, dry our eyes and head to work, just like I did with Big Dog.
We'll agonize all day about how he is doing, how his day is unfolding and how much of a fight it will be to go back or come home (depending on how that unfolding went), just like I did with Big Dog.
But even if it is exactly the same in action, it is completely different. Because Big Dog is my older boy, my first to do everything, my big kid, the one I expect to grow up. And Little Dog, no matter how old he gets, no matter how tall he grows, will always be my baby and for some reason that makes this all completely different.

(I'm also agonizing about Big Dog starting 2nd grade with his two best friends no longer at his school, but because he is who he is, I'm fairly certain he'll be just fine. He's a trooper who fills my heart with sunshine. Well at least when he's not making me completely nuts. Aaaah, kids.)

Grab Bag: Your personal portal

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 14:57:00 +0000

Perhaps I've been watching too much Phineas and Ferb or reading too much "Magic Treehouse" lately, but the other day as I was driving in my car I started to ponder the concept of time travel. Not in any real science-y way. In fact, I only thought about it because Beck's "Loser" came on my playlist and as it always does, it brought me back to the place I first heard that song playing on the radio.

Instead of running mundane motherhood errands, I was mentally back in San Francisco in 1994 sitting in my 1972 VW Karmann Ghia at the corner of Church and 18th making a left turn. I don't remember where I was going really, but I remember the location and the song still transports me. For some reason that song really knocked me back and I pulled over in a bus zone to listen (something I don't really recommend doing in San Francisco because Muni buses don't really look out for parked cars, or anything else for that matter!)

Once the song ended and I was back in my 2004 Passat wagon with windows covered in stickers, I thought, "This would be a great writing prompt!"so here we go.

Do you have a personal time travel portal? What song, smell, or object can take you back to another time?

Grab the code for the badge above and add it to your post, then come back here and leave a link to your blog post in the comments.

Anxious

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 13:53:00 +0000

I'm counting down the days to the first day of school. Next Wednesday Little Dog starts kindergarten and Big Dog starts 2nd grade. And while this is stressful enough on its own, I'm also starting an adventure of my own. My sabbatical, during which I plan on finally writing the book I've been talking about for a few years now. Not for any reason other than I want to do it, but it's still anxiety inducing. See, I'm not always good at finishing what I start and in this case I'm a little worried that I might give up in favor of laying around enjoying the freedom to do nothing. To ensure I don't choose the path of ultimate slack, I've been telling people my plans. I figure if everyone who knows I'm taking a sabbatical also knows that I'm supposed to be writing a book on this sabbatical, I'll feel the pressure to produce a book.
So I'm counting down. And next week, next Wednesday I'll be dusting off my long abandoned first chapters and getting down to work. Wish me luck. Oh, and wish me a little luck with the first day of school stuff too. Little Dog has a tendency to make this sort of thing a little more "interesting" for me.