From Stage Dives to Station Wagons

Not complaining, just documenting

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 15:00:00 +0000

I'm not writing much lately. Something will strike me as noteworthy and then it slips my mind by the time I sit down to pound it out. Or, like the partly finished post about my trip to SF, it requires too much attention and I can't focus to finish it. Why? Work. I'm swamped. Too many evenings obsessing over work email, too many weekends checking stats and following up. If my job involved an actual grindstone, I'd be without a nose by now. But trust me, soon I'll have a clearer head. (And I still have a nose, thought I'd clear that up since I put it out there.)

Anyhow, sometimes the out-of-the-house crazy is matched by in-the-house crazy. Like yesterday evening. I got home to find a giant pool of dog pee in the entryway and my poor husband trying to wrangle the dogs out, but just a moment too late, apparently. Seeing his frazzled state, and being a good and guilty wife (great Danes make truly giant puddles) I offer to clean it up and let him take the dogs out. So I mop. Then when I unload the dishwasher I find it hasn't fully drained. Again. So I investigate. I force it to drain, clean the filter then fish around in the trap just under the filter to find the cause. And I do. Shrimp tails. Old, slimy, smelly-but really clean, shrimp tails. See, last time we ate shrimp, they were peeled, no tails. The last time we ate shrimp with tails, can't remember. But obviously we did, because I have a nice little handful of these bad boys. And I have serious issues with old food, so I'm trying not to vomit. Luckily this does the trick and the dishwasher starts working again.

I make dinner, we eat, we chat and later in the evening, Mr. Dog heads downstairs and the cursing begins a new. Why? Because he's stepped into a fresh pool of pee. This time I suspect our other dog. And I also suspect they're trying to teach us some kind of lesson. And because Mr. Dog now has a soggy sock and the mouth of a sailor, I clean it up when he takes the dogs out once again.

Finally after the boys go to bed, after I have to nearly force Little Dog to shut his eyes and drift off to sleep, we get to rest. For a little bit at least. About an hour after falling asleep, Little Dog is yelling for us. And he's covered in vomit. So we do the clean up, the comforting and the getting him into our bed for the night and spend the next 7 hours being woken up every 20 minutes to give him the puke bucket (aka my largest mixing bowl. Yuck, right?). When morning rolls around, I'm wasted. I can hardly pull myself out of my blanket nest to face the day, which will now be faced from home with a sick child while I keep on top of my meetings, stats and emails.
All I can say is thank heavens for DVDs. I may not have enriched his mind much, but he was happy. By the late afternoon, he had eaten a toast sandwich and two glasses of water. By the end of the day he was on my lap interrupting my phone calls.

Tomorrow he'll be back at school and I'll begin the countdown as I wait for Big Dog to get this tummy bug. Maybe just once I'll luck out and he'll skip it. Yeah, right. Who am I kidding?

Shameless flattery

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Today was Little Dog's birthday party. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. Didn't he turn 4 last month? Yes. Why the hell is the birthday party happening almost a full month after the actual birthday? Well, we had to reschedule. As it turns out, the day we'd originally scheduled was the day every man woman and child in Seattle must fly to Mexico. I don't know why we weren't previously notified, but after the 7th decline because the family was taking a vacation to Mexico, I decided that maybe this wasn't a good weekend for a birthday party so I moved it. Yep, I'm impulsive like that. Anyhow, the lateness of the birthday party isn't the point of this post, so let's move on.

To help celebrate, Grandma and Grandpa drove up from Portland. They came up on Saturday and we hung out, then they helped me watch the kids while I finished the birthday related errands. So last night, Little Dog was just a bundle of chatter. For some reason he decided it was important for him to talk more or less non-stop. Should you decide to tune him out, he thought it was then appropriate to hold one of your ears to keep your focus. He's practical that way. While he was chatting with Grandpa, he paused then asked, "Grandpa, do you have any hair?" He investigated a moment, discovered the hair on the sides of my dad's head and continued. "Grandpa, you have a little hair," then continued his investigation. Looking right into my his eyes, he added, "Grandpa, it looks like someone took your hair." I nearly peed myself giggling. Such charming children I'm raising.

So fast forward, onto the party. We had it at one of those bounce house places where the kids run wild in an inflatable climber filled warehouse. It was great. As the kids ran at top speed from one bounce house to another inflatable obstacle course to an inflatable basketball court, the parents stood around chatting. Once in a while and adventurous parent would join in the bouncing and realize just what a great workout this really is. At some point, Little Dog asked me to go into the obstacle course with him, and I, being a loving, indulgent and sometimes foolish mother, bowed to the peer pressure of the other parents urging me on. After the first round of climbing through tubes, climbing up inflated steps then sliding down big cushy slides, he asked me to do it again. It was kind of fun, so I did. As soon as I'd climbed in after Little Dog, Big Dog climbed in after me. About half way through the second tunnel, Big Dog says, "I'd go faster if there wasn't this big old butt in front of me."
Gee thanks kid. All of a sudden I had a new sympathy for the man with the stolen hair. Sigh.

Well that showed me

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 15:00:00 +0000

When I pick the boys up from school, they are starving. Apparently not eating your lunch then running around like a crazy person all afternoon works up quite an appetite. With two famished children in the car even the short drive home can feel like being trapped for an eternity with wild animals screaming and howling for food. So sometimes I keep snacks in the car. The other day it was a couple handfuls of cashews. I figured it would at least keep them from resorting to cannibalism until we got home. Unfortunately, Big Dog was hungrier than Little Dog. Well, maybe not hungrier, just less of a good sharer. The cashews were quickly eaten up, and Little Dog was shorted on his fair share. Boy did I ever hear about it.
"Mama! Big Dog ate all the nuts!" he howled.
"Well, we'll be home soon and you'll have something there," I tried to reason.
"But I want the cashews!"
"I don't know if I have any more cashews, but I have pistachios. They're yummy too!"
"No! The cashews! I want him to give me them. He should give them back!" this went on and on and after a while I was no longer rational.
"Ok, I guess I poke Big Dog in the tummy until he throws up, then you can eat the nuts," I offered sarcastically.
"Yes! Make him throw up. I want him to throw up."
"Ok, so I'll make him throw up and you'll have to eat his puke. Is that what you want?"
He stopped, was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke, his voice perfectly mimicking a scolding teacher tone, "Mama, don't be da-gusting."
I don't think my giggling helped either.

Flying high

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Nothing says relaxation like looking at the remains of an inbred malaria victim with club feet and a cleft pallet. That's right, I'm off to see King Tut! Thursday, after dropping the kids at school, packing a bag and getting myself to the airport, I'll get on a plane and fly down to San Francisco for the weekend. Not only am I getting a few days away from the rigors of parenting (though I'll be abandoning my poor husband to pick up that slack solo) I'll be spending some quality time with my sister and my best friend. Mr. Dog will be the first to point out that I am leaving him behind, having conveniently scheduled the trip for a weekend which my parents were unavailable to watch the kids making it impossible for him to come along, but that was not intentional. I mean, what were the chances that the one weekend that worked for both Kathleen and me was also the weekend my parents planned to be in San Francisco? Really? What were the odds? So like the bad wife I am, I'm leaving him to tend to the yard apes while I am off gallivanting in my favorite city.

The problem is that I hate flying. Yes, I've mentioned this before, but I think this fear has only increased since I had children. Now, instead of simply obsessing about leaving my husband and family behind, mourning the loss of the wittiest, smartest, most charming person they have ever known, I have to consider the fate of my children. What happens to them if my plane goes down? Who will make sure they comb their hair? Who will kiss their tears when they scrape their knee? Who will obsess over their outfits and make sure their bedding is both snuggly warm and appropriately adorable? And yes, I really worry about these things. Sure, logically I know I am more likely to die driving to work every day, but somehow that seem so much less of an issue than climbing into a giant metal tube and being shot into the sky. I think it is because I lack control over the circumstances of my flight. I am completely dependent on the skills of others to ensure my safe arrival. And while it is unlikely that I will drop out of the sky, the experience is bizarre enough, anxiety inducing enough that I worry and stress the entire duration of my trip, then promptly begin worrying about my return flight. And the odds? Well, sure, they're against me, but so were the odds of a terrorist attack taking place the week of my wedding, right?

Anyhow, I'm in the early stages of my panic now. I'm not allowing it to completely overcome me. I'm still focusing on the practical pre-trip planning. I want to make this whole thing as painless for Dave as possible, so there's a lot of planning to do. And when I'm not planning, I'm trying to focus on the fun part of the trip. But then, just as I start thinking about the enjoyable part of my visit , a new thought finds its way into my head. I'll probably survive the flight, but what if an earthquake gets me? Yeah, I have issues.

That's what it's all about

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 23 Feb 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Being a mom is watching your child drift off to sleep as they snuggle in your arms.
Being a mom is nearly collapsing into bed at night, dead on your feet from the constant schedule of cooking, driving, working and general momness.

Being a mom is bringing your sick child into your bed to soothe their fever and calm their aches.
Being a mom is getting everything they get because they cough directly into your face all night long.

Being a mom is watching your child's face light up when you pick them up at the end of the day.
Being a mom is having to bail out of an important meeting because if you don't, daycare will start charging you for late pick up.

Being a mom is making that extra stop in their room on your way back to bed in the middle of the night to make sure they're still all tucked in and covered up.
Being a mom is stepping on every last freakin' Lego as you navigate your way through the house in the dark.

Being a mom is breathing in the absolutely one of a kind scent of your child's hair as they snuggle in your lap with their head just below your nose.
Being a mom is breathing in the scent of your child's lost lunch when they wake up just in time to be sick, but not in time to get to the bathroom.

Being a mom is listening your child voice their own thoughts and ideas with pride.
Being a mom is listening to your child repeat your most inappropriate comments in mixed company.

Being a mom is loving these crazy little people who have turned my life upside down, changed my priorities and fill my days with insanity and joy.
Being a mom is knowing at some point, if you're lucky, you'll see them have their own kids and get their payback.

A bit harsh, no?

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 15:00:00 +0000

He had an ear infection. I'm going to put that out there just because it might offer some kind of explanation. We'd spent this fine Saturday morning in the pediatrician's office instead of karate class. The diagnosis? Well, when she peered into the offending ear, her reaction was to cringe. Infection, yes. Bulging ear drum. I hate even thinking of that word in the context of my child's ear. She went on to warn me that we might see some oozing, but since we were to leave the office, go directly to the pharmacy and start the antibiotics immediately, even if it did burst (another word I don't want to use in the context of my child's ear) we wouldn't need to do anything other than just continue with the amoxicillin. Fantastic.
So that just sets the tone of the day. Though he had been taking ibuprofen for the pain and for the most part, seemed to be doing pretty well. He'd been playing with his brother, jumping around, and his appetite had returned. In fact, the watermelon was what started this exchange. They boys had polished off the little seedless watermelon and Little Dog wanted more. Unfortunately there was no more, so when I met his request by telling him I'd get more, but I'd have to go to the store to do that later, he cursed me.
Yep, that's right. My angelic looking 4-year-old shouted in a gravely voice, "I CURSE YOU!"
No idea where he got that from, but it just goes to show whenever I think they can't get any weirder, they just have to prove me wrong.

Blogging my way into a corner

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Sat, 20 Feb 2010 06:29:00 +0000

The great thing about writing this blog is that I have an outlet. Not only am I preserving precious memories, because god knows I won't remember them otherwise (but I'll still be able to accurately quote just about any episode of Friends- go figure), but I'm also putting words to my feelings. It's oddly refreshing.
Unfortunately, one of the problems that comes with writing a blog is that people start to read it. People like your family, your friends and your coworkers. And if you're like me, you start worrying about sharing the down stuff. You worry that if you use this new coping mechanism of writing it out, if you feel like the comments of strangers telling you that you aren't crazy might lift you back up, you worry that you might get found out. So you edit yourself. You don't blog about being pissed off about this or that at home, you don't decry your frustrating situation at work and you don't, ever, just let it all out there. Even if that is kind of why you started this thing in the first place.
I'm sure some people do, but I don't think it is worth the potential fall out. So I bottle it up and write up another story about the kids, which is still sincere, and still worthwhile, but maybe not what I really want to be writing about. Sometimes.
It's not just me, is it? What aren't you writing about?

Q & A

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 16 Feb 2010 14:28:00 +0000

Mr. Dog is putting the boys to bed. He's getting them into pajamas and ushering them toward their room, and as he does this, Little Dog is asking questions. Lots of questions. He has clearly entered the "Age of Why".

Why do we have ceilings?
Why do we have two legs?
Why do we have blankets?
Why do we have floors?
Why do we have noses?
Why do we have two eyes?
And so on.

After patiently answering about 32,000 questions, Mr. Dog finally retorts, "Why do you have so many questions?"
Without missing a beat, Little Dog replies, "I'm trying to figure out why we have so much stuff!"
And the questions start right back up.

Why do we have dogs?
Why do the fish have water?
Why do we have pajamas?

The list

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Repeat after me:
I will use my inside voice.
I will pick up my own messes.
I will not intentionally break things that belong to others.
I will not take things that do not belong to me.
I will remember to cough into my elbow so I don't spread germs.
I will eat my growing foods before I ask for a treat.
I will not call people names.
I will not use potty talk.
I will not throw things inside the house.
I will not hit, even if I'm angry.
I will not bite, no matter how frustrated I am.
I will not threaten to run away from home when I get mad.
I will remember to use my words when I am upset, otherwise no one will understand what I need.
I will share.
I will take turns.
I will not whine.
I will not cry when I don't get my way.
I will not run off in parking lots.
I will not hide in the aisles at the store.
When someone asks me a question, I will answer.
I will listen when someone speaks to me.
I will follow these rules because I am the mommy.

Back on the bottle

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 15:00:00 +0000

We celebrated Little Dog's birthday with sushi of they conveyor belt variety. Judge if you must, but it is great for kids. And truth be told, I love sushi. In my world, even bad sushi is better than no sushi. Well, not bad sushi, but you get the idea.
So we were eating sushi. Big Dog with his more tried and true selections, Little Dog with anything that looks exotic. For example, he now knows he does not enjoy saba (mackerel) no matter how shiny and silver the skin looks. And I know how saba looks, partially chewed and spit out into my hand. It's awesome.
As we sat and watched the spider rolls cruise by, Little Dog exclaims, " I want that! Look! A thumb!" and if you looked at the tempura fried soft shelled crab sticking out of the perfectly formed roll, you can see it. And yeah, I guess it look like a thumb. And yeah, he wants to eat it. He later tries to explain that he didn't think it was a real thumb, just a sushi thumb.
At this particular restaurant they include weird sodas on the conveyor belt. Things with strange names, like "Cricket Cola" or some imported Japanese beverage in a bottle that looks like a cross between a lava lamp and an hourglass. They roll past us through the duration of our meal without a comment, then Little Dog spies on. "Papa! Get that wine! For you!"
We giggle, our children have never had a soda. They have no idea that this pink drink trucking by is sugary and bubbly. They think it is a bottle of wine. For papa. My smug, superior parent smirks spreads across my face and stays there for the remainder of the meal. Then another bottle passes by. "Papa! There's a beer! Get it!" cries Big Dog.
I turn to Mr. Dog. "They've never had a soda, so they think it's all beer or wine. We should be proud of that."
"Or maybe..." starts Mr. Dog. I interrupt.
"Fine, they think everything that comes in a bottle is either beer or wine. We could take that to mean we're terrible parents." I grin conspiratorially, "But I'm going to choose to believe the other. It requires less introspection."

Bedtime stories

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 15:00:00 +0000

The other night, Mr Dog was putting the boys to bed. Big Dog is easy now. He gets in bed, talks a bit then drops off to sleep. If he wakes up at night, we don't know about it. He goes right back to sleep until he wakes up in the morning, bright eyed, perky and ready to start his day. We have no idea where he got that from. Mr. Dog and I both stumble our way through the morning until the coffee kicks in, and there had damn well better be coffee. But I digress.

Little Dog is another story. He fights sleep like it is trying to get him. Just as he is slipping off, he forces him awake with one more thing to tell us. This night it was about fish. He needed to ask about fish. "Papa, what do sharks eat?" and Mr. Dog answered. "And what do fish eat?" and Mr. Dog answered. And it went on like this for a while. Finally, and I'm not quite certain how, Mr. Dog decided to tell Little Dog about flying fish.
"Little Dog, there are fish that can fly. They can jump out of the water and really fly," he told his little boy in his lap.
Eyes wide, voice full of disbelief, Little Dog exclaims, "Get out of town!"
And before long, he was sound asleep.

The things we learn

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 15:00:00 +0000

"Mama, why do we have toilet paper?" asks Little Dog.
No, I didn't really think about why he was asking. This kind of stuff comes up when you have kids, and if you try to figure out where it comes from, you'd drive yourself mad.
"To wipe your butt," I answer, feeling that in this case a direct answer is best.
"And to stop our penises from dripping!" pipes in Big Dog, the ever-helpful source of information.
"Really," I respond, not really knowing what to say to that helpful tidbit.
"I'm only talking about boys," he adds, as if that would clear things up.
"Yeah, I can't stop my penis from dripping," I reply, because I can't help myself.
"That's right," as though he was happy I was finally catching on.
And we move on.

Little Dog at 4

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Well, Little Dog here we are at another birthday. Four years old already, and there's no stopping you now. You've had a lot of changes this year and as difficult as they've been at time, if I look at you now, I can easily say you're thriving.
We've moved on from being home with a nanny, to part-time preschool with Big Dog and now you're fully immersed in full day preschool on your own. It was shamelessly hard at times, but you're doing it and I'm so proud.
Looking at you, I barely see that big eyed baby I brought home that first day since he's been replaced with this energetic big boy who keeps me on my toes. My last baby (because Mr. Dog is being all Scroogy in the baby department) is a baby no more. The eyes are still the same, but not much else. But those eyes. Those serene blue eyes are so incongruous with the strong willed imp you've become. And I use imp in the fondest sense of the word, really. Your antics both amuse and frustrate me. You are wildly silly one moment then churlish and feisty the next. And heaven forbid I need you to do something on my time frame, you will once again show me who sets the pace. Just like you did 4 years ago when you kept me waiting that extra week before you graced the outside world with your presence.
At times, I'm already catching glimpses of the teenager you will become. Your put-on brooding, the kind that teenage girls can't get enough of, already has me a little worried. Even your favorite game of telling me "I hate you, mama!" then quickly following it up with the demand, "Cry, mama," and the the sweet, "I love you," that always ends the cycle, reminds me of those surly teenage boys I loved so much. And I know I have a ton of trouble I'll be dealing with later.
But you aren't all tough guy. You're still a world class snuggler who falls asleep each night in my lap. When the sleep sets in and your face almost glows with your peaceful rest, you look like an angel, my love.
As you turn 4, I'm watching you work out who you are. So different from your big brother in so many way, but you still almost hide in his shadow at times. You mimic him incessantly, both to tease him and to follow his lead. Your constant deference to what Big Dog wants makes me a little crazy since I remember having a big sister of my own, but you seem to be happier when he picks, leaving you whatever he rejected. When given first choice, your answer is almost always "Big Dog, which one do you want?" I wonder how long this will last. And as quick as you are to give in to Big Dog, we seem to butt heads more and more frequently. Things need to be done in your order, according to your plan or I feel the frustration emanate from you. And then I'll be asked to build a remote control of one kind or another to right the wrong I have committed. (I think Tivo may have altered your perception of reality.) You are looking for control, for some way to take charge, but often when you find it you realize you don't really want it. I guess this is the big battle for my 4 year old boy.
I love your silly giggles. I love your use of overheard phrases, the way you say "that's crazy!" or "get out of town!" so perfectly intoned that it seems oddly out of place coming from a boy your size. I love your obsession with super heroes, your love of jokes that make no sense and made up rhyming words. Every day I get to be your mommy is a gift. Every day I am rewarded with a big melting hug or even one of your trademark "slobbery kiss" with your bottom lip held down with your index finger, my heart is lifted.
Little Dog, I'm so proud to be your mommy. Happy birthday, big guy. Here's to all the adventures we have to look forward to in the year to come.
I love you.

And like that...he's gone

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 15:00:00 +0000

I'm referring to the agitated and anxious child I'd been leaving at daycare. Gone. And Little Dog has returned. Thank heavens. It happened overnight more or less. We spoke with the psychologist and within days he was not in tears at drop off. Little Dog, not the psychologist. I don't think he was ever in tears, but I know little of his personal life outside our appointment. Anyhow I started getting notes from his teacher that he'd had a good day. When I'd pick him up, he lallygagged and stalled leaving. And I started breathing normally again. I didn't want to write too much about it at first, just in case it was a good few days that would disappear leaving Little Dog quivering at preschool again. But enough time has passed that I think we're in the clear.
Don't get me wrong, he's not in love with school like his big brother. He still asks every morning "Is this a school day?" and lets out a big wail if it is, but he recovers quickly and that's the last he mentions it for the morning. He's also quit complaining about Donna. I don't know what's up with that, but I'm happy not to be subjected with his tales of how much he dislikes old people, especially around my birthday.
One of the little changes we made, one of the suggestions from the psychologist, was to establish a routine when we dropped him off school. Instead of the usual hug and kiss kind of goodbye, we now do an elaborate, or it maybe more accurate to say an elaborately silly send off. We still do the normal hug and kiss, I say goodbye and I say, "Have a great day!" But now, Little Dog asks, "Do you need a push?" I say I do, I explain that I need a big push to rocket me off to work and stick out my hip in a ridiculously goofy way, ok, I kind of stick out my butt, truth be told. Then the big boy with a big smile on his face, ready for his day at school gives me a monumental shove and I propel off, pretending to flail wildy, ricocheting off any convenient surface and find my way to the door. He settles in, I get in the car and we both are off to the beginning of a good day. Is this key the to our change of tone? Maybe. I may feel a little foolish as I flail my way out the door, but man does it ever feel better than reaching my car with the tears of Little Dog still echoing in my ears.

Super Bowl Highlights

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 08:35:00 +0000

Sunday was the Super Bowl and we shared that experience with some good friends, good food and a few drinks. While the boys mostly played nicely with our friend's son, there were brief periods where Little Dog would need to come downstairs and kick back with the adults while some, um, rough spots were smoothed over. During one of these intermissions, Little Dog witnessed his first Super Bowl ad, and it just happened to be this one:

He watched intently in absolute silence. When the ad ended, he paused then said what we were all thinking. "What the...?"
So perfectly summed up. What the, indeed.

Another nice win with our Super Bowl adventure was the long awaited good comeback for name calling. See Little Dog has some issues with being called a baby at school. He also generally dislikes being teased. Not so unusual, right? We've been trying to work on walking away instead of getting angry, but somehow that hasn't been working so well for my little man. Like his mommy, he loves to have the last word, and like his papa, his instinct is to punch them in the stomach. (For the record, Mr. Dog has that impulse well under control. But as he tells it, he had quite the fists of fury as a child.) Well tonight, when Big Dog and their buddy decided it was hilarious to tell Little Dog he had a diaper on his head he started to get angry. I had to intervene.
"Little Dog, do you have a diaper on your head?" I asked, to point out the ridiculousness of the statement.
"No," he replied, still fairly frustrated.
"Then they're wrong. Ignore it."
"But they keep saying it!" he insisted.
"Yes, but if it isn't true, it isn't you who has the problem. If they keep telling you something that you know isn't true, well, there's a word to describe them. Delusional. In fact, you can just tell them that. Go ahead, tell them, 'You're delusional.'" I urged.
And it took off like wildfire. Soon all of the boys were using their new vocabulary word, and the name calling more or less stopped. Well, apart from the "delusional" name. But that's not obscene or widely offensive, so I consider it a win. See, sometimes I'm pretty good at this mommy gig.

Alternative education

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 15:00:00 +0000

If you don't listen to KEXP, you should. And you don't have to live in Seattle, though it helps if you want to listen to it in the car, like I do. I don't know how you'd do that, if you live in say, St. Louis, Missouri for example. You could still listen on the web, or check out their podcasts. But I digress, I love KEXP. Not only do they offer a wide range of music to suite all kinds of tastes, they're publicly funded, so you don't get the limited range of a corporate radio conglomerate forced down your throat 24/7. But maybe you're into that. Even if you are, which would be a little weird, they have offered educational "teaching moments" for my kids on multiple occasions.
First, I was driving Big Dog to school, and as we drove John in the morning decided it was time to give me a flashback to college. So as he played King Missile's biggish hit. If you know it, you might be cringing in preparation for what came next. Well, it was inevitable. About a minute into the song, Big Dog asks, "Mommy, what is a detachable penis?" Yeah, try and explain that.
And then, a few days ago, with both boys in the car, John in the morning played a nice little Wilie Nelson song. You're probably thinking, "Country? Why are you listening to country on your little hipster, alternative, Seattle-based public radio station?" Well, let me tell you this. This song was not quite what I'd expect from Willie Nelson. It happened to be about latent homosexuality in cowboys. Yep. Apparently, cowboys are frequently secretly fond of each other. So as I'm listening, grinning to myself about the unexpected lyrics, a little voice from the back seat reminds me that I am not alone. "Big Dog!" exclaims Little Dog, "It's a cowboy song! Get our instruments!" And the two little guys in the back seat were happily strumming their air guitars along with Willie. Then, upon further listening Little Dog paused. "Mama, why would he have a lady inside his head?"
See, it's all about the teaching moments.

The art of gifting

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Saturday was my birthday. Yes, I've mentioned this several times already, but there is a point to bringing it up again. My fantastic parents drove up from Portland so Mr. Dog and I could go out to dinner, and enjoy more than a few alcoholic beverages with friends while they watched the boys. That was great. Auntie Chihuahua and Thomas joined us for dinner and drinks. Lots of drinks. And since this is a family oriented blog, I won't go into too much detail here, but I will never be able to look at gnomes or tiny combs again without thinking about Thomas. Seriously. I'm scarred. But it was great, really great. And it wasn't even the best part of my birthday!
Earlier in the day, Mr. Dog took the boys out to pick out cards and get presents for mama. While he was getting them dressed, Mr. Dog told them, "Think about what you might want to get mama for her birthday." Big Dog paused, thought about it then announced, "I know what I want to get her," with absolute certainty.
While they shopped, I also shopped. I hit a few stores to get a new outfit for going out to dinner. When I returned home Big Dog nearly attacked me at the door. "Mama, your presents are upstairs. There are more than one, but they're all wrapped together. I knew just what to get you. Come open them!" So I did. And as I tried to think what he might have wanted to get me, I had flashbacks to previous ShamWow discussions and tried not to cringe.
I was happily surprised to find it was not a ShamWow. No, his perfect gift turned out to be a hairbrush. Just like one I have. He was elated. I enthusiastically received the gift and then opened the other pieces of the package. Mr. Dog had included a magazine focused on designing furniture. Little Dog had decided to get me the Sponge Bob Squarepants version of Memory. And together they added a new copy of the original Where the Wild Things Are, since my copy which I owned long before I had children has been trashed by my hard reading boys.
It was kind of an odd assortment, but their excitement about their gifts was overwhelming. Big Dog was especially proud of his hairbrush gift. And it sounds strange, but I understand his excitement. In his mind it was the perfect present. I'd had that same hairbrush. It was the brush we used to comb the boys' hair before school every morning. Recently it has gone missing. His though going into picking a present I would like and use is adorable. Even more adorable was his giddy joy in telling everyone how much I loved the brush. When I went downstairs to get dressed for dinner, Big Dog told grandma, "Mom was so happy! She really liked it! Mama said she loved her new brush! It wasn't about the wrapper, it's all about the present." And later he told Mr. Dog how happy he was that I thought it was the perfect present. In fact, as I'm writing this he's in the guest room telling Mr. Dog how much I liked the presents and how right he was in picking out a hairbrush and that I do indeed love Where the Wild Things Are.
And yes, it probably is the best brush I have ever been given as a gift. Mr. Dog says I might need to tone down my enthusiasm for this kind of thing or I may end up getting a brush every year for my birthday. I'd be ok with that. As for Little Dog's gift, well we've played a great deal of Memory today and I imagine we'll be playing a lot more in the future. So maybe these boys were onto something. These gifts kind of rock.

Know what I want for my birthday?

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Well apart from uninterrupted sleep, a shoebox full of twenties and a magical spell to restore my youth. Apart from those, which sadly I do not stand a good chance of getting anytime soon, I'd love some comments. Specifically, I want to meet anyone who has been lurking. I'd like to know who you are and how you found me, because I am sincerely flattered that you keep coming back.
And if you can figure out a way to give me back the boobs I had in my 20s, I'd appreciate that too.

Old

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 15:00:00 +0000

Tomorrow is my 38th birthday. I'm not at all excited about it. Well, I'm excited about the going out to dinner with friends part of it, but not the big 8 next to the 3 that I've long grown used to.
This year I feel old. I feel tired most of the time. I no longer feel cool. I no longer feel youngish. I feel and look like what I'd imagine a PTA mom to feel and look like. And that stereotype, at least in my mind, is not good.

At any rate, I will not be alone in celebrating my birthday on Saturday. Turns out, I share this date with one current co-worker and one past co-worker. I also share it with Dick Cheney. Evil. But on the flip side I also share it with Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Good. Though I doubt he's going to be celebrating, considering he's dead and all.

Primping

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 22:50:00 +0000

When Big Dog was little, he loved lotion. Any chance he'd get he's swipe my lotion and dab it on his face. Then he'd want to slather it on my face, or the face of anyone who happened to be handy. This delighted his Uncle Stan, a long time proponent of ample moisturizing. His dad was less giddy about the fascination. After lotion came lip balm, and my purse was routinely raided for whatever tubes he could find there. He also loved any kind of cream or balm that was packaged in a little tin. I was less than happy to share these with him, since he favored method of applying my beloved Rosebud Salve was to dig his pointy little finger into the bottom of the tin then scoop up a giant chunk of the stuff to glop on his face. In time this fascination has passed. He still enjoys a good spay of bug repellent in the summer, but apart from that, and the occasional overzealous application of anti-tangle spray to his hair, we have outgrown the product phase of his life.

Little Dog, on the other hand, is in the thick of this phase. While he used to be very interested in my make up, or my "colors" as he called them, he has moved on. No longer does he plead with me to have his toe nails painted the same color as mine. (Pleas to which I gladly complied, I must add, no matter how much it annoyed his father.) He's moved on. Now he's onto the man stuff. Mr. Dog's deodorant to be specific. He's kind of obsessed. On more than one occasion, I've walked into the bathroom and found him applying it to every uncovered surface of his body, and let's not forget the top of his head. We've told him it is not his and that he should not be using his Papa's stuff without asking, but apparently the allure of the sport stick is too compelling. I never know what day I'll lean down to pick up my sweet-faced imp and catch a whiff of the Old Spice man.

Trash talkin' with the best of em

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 15:00:00 +0000

There was a time in my life I used to play special music for the kids. I had CDs by kid oriented musicians that even a music fan could tolerate. Big Dog and Little Dog went to their first concert way back when Little Dog was a wee baby, still napping in a sling as Ralph Covert rocked the Moore Theatre. Well, rocked it as much as a kid rock band could rock. Big Dog used to shout the alphabet with Jam Toast and learned all about conifers from They Might Be Giants. Over time I just stopped with that. Partly because it just didn't fit anymore, Big Dog started to really like the music I listened to, and partly because, well, I just got tired of it. There are only so many songs about pet dogs and monkeys up in a tree any adult woman can take.
Now we listen to what I like. And lately I've been on a bit of a kick with The Clash. I am proud to report that the boys seem to enjoy it just as much as I do. Big Dog strums his imaginary guitar and nods his head to the beat, while Little Dog slams away at his imaginary drum set, somewhat inexplicably placed above his head. My heart swells with maternal pride as they rock out with their best "bad attitude" faces on.

"What do you think, mama?" asked Little Dog, as we drove to school the other morning.
"About what?" I asked, wondering if he was looking for a critique of his drumming or if he had something else in mind.
"I think he should stay. What do you think?"
I grinned, he was listening to the lyrics. Why wouldn't he be. And why wouldn't he want an answer?
"Well, if he goes there will be trouble," I pointed out.
"So he should stay!"
"But if he stays it will be double!" I remind him.
"Yeah, but I think he should stay." Apparently he has a taste for danger, my little man.
For the rest of the song, and every time since, he shouts an answer to Mick Jones with increasing annoyance in his voice. "I told you, you should stay!" or "I already told you to STAY!"
How's that for my little badass. He makes a mama proud.

Rub it in

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 25 Jan 2010 15:00:00 +0000

"It's almost your birthday, mama!" says Big Dog. And he's right. It's right around the corner.
"Yep."
"How old are you?"
"On my birthday, I'll be 38." (keep in mind when I say 38, I mean 26. It's a weird little game I play.)
"Thirty-eight! Thirty-nine! FORTY!" he sings out loudly, bringing to light the reason I'm dreading this birthday.
"Hey! That's not nice."
He laughs.

Later Auntie Chihuahua comes over for dinner and while she and I are talking in the kitchen, Big Dog comes up and observes, "My mama is much bigger than you!" Nice wording kid.
"Yes," agrees Auntie Chihuahua, "She is much taller than I am!" emphasizing the ego-saving word swap.
"She must be much older than you!" he adds. Ouch.
"No, being taller doesn't always mean someone is older. Not in adults anyhow. We're actually just a couple months apart in age," she says, gently correcting his error.
"Do you know what he said earlier?" I ask. "He asked how old I was and I told him I was going to be thirty-ei-" Big Dog interrupts with enthusiasm
"Thirty-eight! Thirty-nine! FORTY!" he repeats nearly screaming the ascending ages.
"Why do you do that?" I ask. "I don't want to think about that!"
"I know," he says, grinning impishly. "But I think it's funny!"
Heh, yeah, really funny. I'll be over here crying when you get done yucking it up. Sigh

This old house? Yep, this one

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 20:41:00 +0000

If you're interested in the remodel I keep alluding to, and sometimes writing about, check out my latest effort. Mr. Dog and I have long discussed a blog dedicated to the house project, and today I decided to just get it going. You're officially invited to visit House in Flux. I've got nearly 5 years of back material to cover, if my feeble mind can drag it all back up, and probably another decade of stuff to come. I hope you'll check it out.

In over my head

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 15:00:00 +0000

He always asks the really hard questions in the car. While I'm driving and there is no way to easily redirect his attention to his myriad toys or "Oh look at Nikita!" I think he knows I'm trapped and have to answer. It really isn't fair.
On the way to a bowling date today, Big Dog asks, "Was the earth made?"
Oh boy. So many answers. Mine? "Yes."
"And the people. Were they made?"
Slightly less self assured I say, "Well, kind of. You know, this is kind of a complex topic."
Undaunted he continues, "So how did they start? I mean when they made the earth, what part did the people start with?"
"You mean the planet? How did they make the planet?"
"Yes."
How do I explain the concept of expanding mass and the Big Bang to a kindergartner? Seriously? So I went simple, "People didn't make the planet. There is a theory that the universe and all the planets came from a kind of explosion. I believe that. Other people believe other things." See how I neatly skirted the religious stuff, but left room for later discussion if he heard other stories?
"Oh. But then were did the people come from?"
"Well, that's another toughie, buddy. I believe that we evolved from very tiny ancient bits of life that over long periods of time changed and grew. Eventually, after years and years and years we became people. Remember when we went to see the Lucy exhibit at the Science Center? I believe that at some point in time that is what we evolved from. Interesting right?"
Silence.
After a long pause, he started again.
"Well, I believe the explosion."
"Ok, that's good. I'm sure we can find more books at the library if you want to know more."
"I belive the explosion," he repeated. "But it is kind of silly, right?"
"That the universe was born of an explosion? Sure, I guess so."
"Yeah, I believe it, but mama, that's kind of crazy." And he left me hanging about his belief in evolution. Couldn't he have asked Mr. Dog about this stuff? He is a scientist after all.

Still dreaming

noreply@blogger.com (followthatdog) — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 15:00:00 +0000

"It's sad that someone got Martin Luther King dead," says Big Dog in the backseat as we drive to pick up my newly repaired vacuum.
"It is," I answer. "Did you talk about this in school?"
"A little."
"Do you know why someone killed him?" I asked, wondering how much they covered in kindergarten.
"No," he said. "Why?"
"Well, there was a time in this country where people were given different rights based on the color of their skin. It was ok to tell some people they didn't count as much and didn't get to be treated fairly because they happened to have dark skin. Isn't that stupid?"
"Yeah! That's dumb," he agreed.
"Martin Luther King Jr was working to change that. He was helping people organize and fight the laws that kept some people less equal that others."
"Like they had the separate drinking fountains?" offers Big Dog. "Why would they do that?"
"I don't know. I think there is a lot of fear and ignorance in the world. Fear and ignorance breed hatred."
"But why did they kill him?" he asks.
"Ignorance and fear are powerful things. Sometimes when people are facing big changes, changes to the way they are used to things being they get scared. And sometimes when people get scared they do horrible things to prevent those changes. So in this case, this man thought that by killing Martin Luther King Jr he could keep things from changing. But he was wrong."
"I'm glad," says Big Dog thoughtfully. "Why do some people not want to be fair?"
"I don't know. That I don't really understand at all," I answered. "Maybe they're afraid that if everyone was equal, if everything was fair, they'd lose something. Maybe they think they don't have enough and if they had to share what they had, they would suffer. But that doesn't make it right."
"No. That's kind of stupid," he agreed. "Are things all fair now?"
"No sweetie, things are never going to be completely fair. Some people will always have more and some will have less. The best we can hope is that we make sure that those who have the least have enough to survive," I say in my left-leaning way.
"But we don't have different water fountains anymore, right?" he asked. Obviously the water fountain thing made a big impression on him.
"No, but some people still aren't given the same rights as others just because of who they are. People like uncle Stan and uncle Michael don't have all the same rights as I do. They can't get married just because of who they love."
"Well that's just stupid. I hope someone changes that," says my boy.
"Me too, honey. Me too."
Out of the mouths of babes oft times come gems.