Thirteen going on fabulous

A teenager lives in our house now. She moved in last Wednesday and kicked out the little girl who used to be here. So far, she has been just as sweet and delicious as the little girl, and honestly, I don't expect that to change. I'm not scared of these teenage years.

Lovely is now thirteen. On her birthday, she came home to a yard full of flamingos wishing her a "Happy Birthday!" She had requested shepherd's pie for her birthday dinner and also wanted a homemade chocolate cake with chocolate icing. She got both. I even whipped up some peanut butter mousse to put between the four layers of the cake to surprise her. And, to her amazement, I managed to write legibly, even nicely, if I do say so myself, on the top of the cake. She almost didn't believe I had done it.

Her daddy wanted some pictures made for her birthday. "Thirteen is special," he proclaimed. I think that can be loosely translated, "I would like to have one last shot at my baby girl," but I could be wrong.

The young woman she is becoming is quite remarkable. She has been through a lot the past few years, yet she continues to love with an open heart. She is also able to stand firm in her beliefs, and that will really suit her well as she enters high school.

As an example: a couple of weeks ago, I asked Lovely how her piano lesson was the night before. (I had been helping her with her music because she had a lot to accomplish in a very little amount of time, and because,well, quite frankly, she just wasn't being taught.) She opened up and talked for almost an hour about how her teacher had been telling her to lie to her father and me. She was to "forget" her assignment book so that I couldn't ask questions and was told to not let us know that the teacher had failed to register Lovely for a festival she had been preparing for.

Lovely said, and I do quote because I will never forget it, "It's not right for a teacher to ask me to lie to my parents."

Right on, dearie. That is an incredibly mature realization. If I had been able to stand up for that when I was even 17, I would have had a much easier time of things. It was so brave of her to open up and let us know what was going on and that it made her really uncomfortable.

This girl, this young woman, balances loving her brother and me with the knowledge that her mother tells her that she shouldn't. She balances loving her father and her mother with the knowledge that they don't love each other. She must know how much we all love her, or I don't see how she could do it.

She hasn't been dealt a fair lot as a child. But instead of it ruining her childhood, it is already apparent that she is using what she has learned about life to become a beautiful, remarkable, strong, loving, and courageous young woman.

I am proud to know her, and I am so grateful that my son has Lovely for a big sister.

Hello, My Name Is Anger

I'm angry. I should have known. The shortness, the depression, the feeling of being overwhelmed. The impatience with everyone, including strangers.

When the happy salesman came to my door this week, he rang the doorbell and then did an enthusiastic drum cadence with his knuckles as well. The dogs began barking, and the baby monitor hissed out the sounds of a just then napping baby rustling in his crib. I bolted to the front door and opened it just enough to stick my head out and snap, "I've got a sleeping baby in here. I don't care what you are selling." He jumped all four steps down from my stoop with his apology left hanging in a speech bubble that dripped with shame.

He didn't deserve that from me.

Someone attacked a friend of mine yesterday on a blog. Granted, I am a fiercely loyal friend, but it made me far more angry than it should have. I ached for her and wished that I could take on that other woman face to face. The things that ran through my head to say to her were cruel and hurtful. Very hurtful. I didn't say them, but I dwelled on them.

I told Girl this morning that I was feeling mean. She suggested that what I was feeling was really anger. She is so right.

I don't handle anger well. I have pushed it so far down into the places I never reach that when I do feel it, I don't recognize it. Anger doesn't wear disguises; I just don't know it. It stands quietly in front of me, waiting on me to give it the right name tag. I hand it, "Hello, my name is MEAN," or "HURT" or "SAD," and it patiently places each new tag on top of the other one, but answers to none of those names.

When I think about expressing anger, it frightens me. If I say that I'm angry that my parents and my brother's family get to celebrate everyday together, be it Valentine's Day or a talent show, I'm scared I will be misunderstood. It worries me that by feeling a jealous anger, they will think I'm angry at them. Which I'm not. Right beside the jealous anger sits gratitude that they have that time together. They make odd bedfellows, but there they are.

I just wish that I had that time with them too. And stepping back, I don't know if that emotion is anger or not. That one may be sadness. It's hard to tell.

Plus, expressing anger opens up a vulnerability. Back in September when I shut my blog down for awhile, I kept hearing, "Don't let her know you are angry. Don't let her think she got to you." I get that. I get that for some people, knowing you've made another person angry is some sort of victory. But that's not my problem. Was I angry that someone used my blog to violate my husband and try to ruin our first night out since the baby was born? Of course I was. Anger was an appropriate response, but I didn't show it because for some reason I thought that would make me weak.

I don't think anger wants anything from me. I don't think it expects me to dance with it, write songs about it, or paint with it. I think it just wants me to give it the right name tag. I start today.

I'm angry that I lost two more babies. In a row.
I'm angry at loss.

I'm angry that the best my doctor had to offer was, "It happens."
I'm angry at helplessness.

I'm angry that my parents can't come to see us and that I can't get to see them often enough.
I'm angry at disease.

I'm angry at the adults in Lovely's life who don't see her as her own person. Who make decisions for her based on their own desires and bitterness.
I'm angry at selfishness.

I don't live in the anger, but I have been living around it. Skirting it. Giving it all the wrong names. In that, I have given it stayability. I don't want that. Giving it all the wrong names lets it seep out into my everyday life and stain the relationships I have worked so hard to polish.

I name you, Anger, and I give you notice. You are only a feeling. You will not rule my life.

Oh, Gawd. Bewbs again.

For those of you who know me in real life, I hereby warn you that I am about to talk about my boobs. Again. You may click away now, or read at your own risk.

Catherine breastfed another woman's child this weekend. If you don't know the story and would like to, it can be found here. It's not directly related, but it's got me thinking.

I have two breasts. My momma has one. My friend has none. I still have two that I should be grateful for.

They are mine. I grew them. I have lived with them for almost 25 years now. For most of those years I hid them. I wore baggy shirts and sweaters that were too big. I was uncomfortable with the attention they garnered.

It was more attention than I ever received myself. In fact, this space is even overshadowed by them, with the most searched hits coming from "ginormous boobs" or some incarnation thereof.I suppose that is also because I continue to talk about them.

The first time my husband, then new boyfriend, saw them in just a camisole, he blurted, "My God! They're ginormous!" I quickly put the baggier shirt back on and slunk down in my seat. I wanted the focus to remain on me, not them. Betrayed by my breasts once again.

Only I wasn't. After the initial shock, he went right back to talking to me. My face, rather. He held my hand, put his arm around me, all without copping that oops-feel that even some of my friends' husbands have been guilty of copping. Later, I learned that Kevin's reaction to the girls and their girth was in fact just shock. He actually just considered it a big bonus and gave me reason to believe it too. And since my mother reads this blog, I will stop there.

After I became a mother, I expected to have an epiphany about my breasts. Learn the "real" purpose they serve. Open the heavens and sound the trumpets: breastfeeding. My boobies were created to be a food source to my babies. I would magically begin to respect them and they in turn would learn their place in this world. Which was about four inches lower than I had hoped for, but whatever.

The thing is, I don't think the heavens opened, and I don't think they were made just to feed babies.

You see, I have these hands. Two of them. They type, they play the piano, they change diapers, they bathe a child, they prepare meals, they clean this house. They do a multitude of things for every different part of my being. The writer, the musician, the mother, the wife, all use these hands.

It is the same with my breasts. They are functional; feeding my child. They are sexual; just ask my husband. They are decorative; clothes fit better with them than without them. They are all of these things to me.

The boobies belong to me. If I want to use them to feed my child, I can. If I want to use them to pump milk for another child, I can. If I want to use them to nurse another child, I can. If I want to use them to try and sell albums, I can. If I want to use them to reach orgasm, I can. If I want to use them to keep my toes warm, I can in another few years, I'm sure.

They belong to me. Yours belong to you. And no one. No one should be telling us what we should or shouldn't be doing with them.

Reconsidering the reasons

BlogHer, the conference, is something I assumed I would attend this year. I've been twice now, and it helps me give credit to what I do here, and here, and here, and here.

The first year I attended, I roomed with an amazing woman and got to hang with some super cool bloggettes. It was validating to be around so many great writers and to learn more about the craft and the business. I was inspired.

Then I got a little busy having a baby and all. There wasn't as much time to do the reviews I had been doing for Props and Pans. I got tired of always being down and dragging my blog through the muck. I kept up with it, but only half-heartedly.

By the time summer came, I was feeling a little better about things and Little Bird and I took off for BlogHer once again. We met my momma there, and she helped watch after Bird while I attended the conference.

Here's the thing. I didn't feel connected. Most of the people I knew and had hung with the year before were all attending outside events that I didn't know about and wasn't part of. It's hard to say that without sounding like sour grapes, and you certainly can't say it right after the conference or people get terribly defensive, and you get labeled a whiner.

I'm not whining, I'm just stating some facts. Facts that have been influencing how I look at blogging. Besides, what affected me was not that I wasn't invited to events, it was that I wasn't missed. As in, no one noticed that I wasn't there or included. I felt invisible. Plus, I didn't get to visit with the people I really wanted to visit with because they were busy. With these other things. Maybe invisible isn't the word, maybe it's just disconnected.

I've been doing this for a few years now, and I know that "canape" is one of those names that illicits the, "Oh yeah, I've heard of her," response. I also know that I have a small (but fantabulous) readership. I'm okay with that. I will not find my fame and fortune with blogging. I never intended to.

There are bloggers on every level who I consider friends. They are terrific women who I'm humbled to have personal relationships with. The thing is, they have their own circles of friends, so even though I have friends, I don't have a group of friends. I've had this issue my whole life. I can be friends with a jock, a geek, a freak, and a brain, but I never have fit in with the whole group of jocks, geeks, freaks, or brains.

I stand alone, in the end. Always alone at some point or another, but yet never forever. I'm working on learning how to be a part of a group. There are some women who have been schooling me in that for about 18 months now. It's a good lesson to learn.

In the meantime though, there is the question of BlogHer. It has come down to this for me:

• I am not ever going to do reviews for a living or on this blog.
  
• I will never have enough traffic to sell adspace here, nor will I be changing my writing style and content to make it so.
• While I love reading several different blogs, I have lost the urge to connect with every single blogger that I love in real life. I don't need to meet the musicians whose albums I love. It's become the same sort of thing.
  
• I have a bigger desire for the real life connections I make via the internet to happen locally. There are some amazing bloggers right here where I live, and I would like to cultivate relationships with them.
• For what it would cost me to go to BlogHer, my family could spend a week in the mountains.

That is the bottom line. Do I value networking and the possiblity of making a few more connections over giving my family some much needed time off together? Do I really think that I can accomplish enough at BlogHer to justify choosing it over a week off with my boys?

I just don't think so.

Having said that, I am not against going with a sponsorship. If some company wants to pay my way and have me wear their name plastered on my behind, that would be alright with me. I think the conference is a wonderful thing, and if I end up there this year, I would do some things differently.

I would be a little more outgoing. I would find out ahead of time what was going on and when, and I would get myself included. Because in the end, most of the events surrounding the conference weren't exclusive - getting left out is way different than being excluded.

We'll see. For now though, I'm going to book that cabin in the Appalachians and look forward to some quiet summer days with my family.

And I'm going to keep writing and reading. Because that's what this is all about in the end.

The big scary Bible

Little Bird and I like to go to the library. We read in the morning, in the afternoon, and at night before bed. We love books. I quickly learned that books are expensive, and that even though Mama gets bored of the same board books morning, noon, and night, it just isn't in the budget to keep buying books. And why should we when we can just go to the library?

Our trips to the library are short, as Little Bird mainly likes to pull books off of the shelves and place them in the bins around that are for reshelving. He also likes to stand at the little short shelves of board books and pull them out one at a time, examine the front and back of each book, and then hand it to me. I put some back and pull some to check out and take home.

The very first book Little Bird "selected" yesterday was a big sparkly book about Noah's Ark. We haven't started learning Bible stories yet - unless you count him chucking the baby Jesus from his Fisher Price nativity set with me crying out, "Noooooo! Don't throw the Son of God!" so I thought it would be good to start. I'll bet the Reverend Nana agrees.

When we got home, we sat down on the couch to read. I opened up the Noah's Ark book, and began,

"Noah was a good man.
He lived a holy life.
He had three grown-up sons,
And a kind and loving wife."

Okay. That's a nice story. Next page.

"God will send a frightening flood
To cover all the land.
And as the water rises,
There'll be no place left to stand.

I have to wipe the world clean
Because my people are so bad.
But I'll save you and your family,
So Noah, don't be sad."

Holy crap. I know the story. I went to a Presbyterian day school. I know all the stories. It hadn't occurred to me how freaking scary they are until now.

Evil snake in the garden. Cain and Abel. Job and the series of unfortunate events. Daniel getting thrown to the lions. Jonah and the whale. Then of course, the torture and crucifixion of Jesus. They are all freaking nightmare stories.

I believe in a God of grace and mercy. I want for my son to know of the goodness and kindness. He should know of the grace.

I guess that you have to tell the stories like these to get to the grace. I mean, the story of grace in my life involves death, divorces, and miscarriages. It's not a pretty story, it's just a happy ending. But without the first part of the story, there can be no grace.

Tell that to a 13 month old. No thanks. For now, I'm skipping over the story of the flood and just talking about the animals on the big boat. I think I'll leave out drunken Noah too, just for good measure.

Snowed in. Figuratively.

The posts lie unfinished in draft form. That is so not like me. I just can't seem to finish anything I start online lately. I owe someone a review, but it's going to be a bad review, so I can't get motivated to write it. I have posts about new mamas, posts about nursing, posts about reading, all in the hopper - unfinished.

Since I never got around to posting pictures of our snow day in January (at least, not that I can remember), I'm going to brighten this page with a few shots from today. Little Bird is a Snow Bird. He loves it. Poor old Gibson - it just made him nervous. He kept trying to nose Bird up out of the snow and clean off his little hands for him. That dog worries way too much about the baby.

These women who I love

There really has to be a better terminology than "in real life." You've probably seen it online - IRL - to denote between what is real and what occurs online. I used to use it. I've decided I'm done with the phrase.

The friends I've made via the internet are as real as the friends I get to see face to face. Granted, there are differences to the relationships, the history, and how they play out, but they are just as real.

It's my birthday. Yup. Today. Fat Tuesday. I freaking love it when my birthday falls on Mardi Gras. I get to stick a candle in a King Cake and dance around like a fool. It's awesome.

I got the best present this year. I had to beg for it, but I got it.

Kevin took me to Baltimore to see some of my friends. Some of my real friends. We spent the afternoon with a crowd of them, and then spent the night with Nita and her family. It was absolutely wonderful.

These women have invested themselves in my life. They have trusted me and given me reason to trust them. They have stayed with me through my cliched darkest days and brightest ones as well. We have grieved together and celebrated together. I honestly love them.

Gail, Amy, Jill, Nicole, Heather, Jessica, Nita were all there. I had never met any of them in person before, and yet there wasn't a moment of awkwardness. Well, except when I cried during my first Gail hug. Or cried again when I was telling Jill goodbye. Or when Amy texted and said that she was going to make it after all. Okay. So it was awkward when I kept crying. I couldn't help it though. I was too too happy.

Thank you, Kev, for going with me and meeting these fantastic women. I hope next time that the whole group can be together. The whole group of real friends.














Happy birthday to me. I'm a lucky lucky woman. And yes, I'm aware that my child is only 1 and is already a boob man. That has to be my favorite picture ever.

Happy birthday little Pippi

Little Bird's first friend turns one tomorrow. Her mama has a new blog, and it's a rather nice place to visit, especially whilst I gather myself again. I think you'll find though, that you'll want to stick around.

Add another to your reader, you know you want to.

First kiss

One of the best things about motherhood is that no day is completely and totally horribly bad. This day has tried its best, but it's just not making its way into the suck ass column.

My labs are back. Still pregnant, but not for long. Honestly, I don't know if the nurse said they were dropping or that they weren't climbing like they should be. After I heard, "Dr. Howell said to tell you she is so sorry," I sort of zoned out for the next part. All I know is that it's not a viable pregnancy, and I have an appointment on Monday. I guess I just hang out and wait to bleed now. Fun.

I got this news on the way to my La Leche League meeting. This is the meeting I first went to when Little Bird was 3 weeks old, and I've been going ever since. I did miss December because he was sick, and we missed January because I didn't realize the third Friday of the month wasn't the second Friday, thereby leaving me feeling stupid on the fourth Friday.

While turning around and going home was my first choice, I decided that I could use the company and it could help me take my mind off the bad news. So I kept going. And when I got there, no one else was there. I sat for about 10 minutes just in case they were all running late (unlikely), and then gave up.

When I came home, I looked up the meetings online, only to find that meeting has been completely deleted from the roster. I've been attending it for a year now, giving my contact information each month, and they didn't feel it necessary or even polite to contact the regulars to tell them they were dissolving that group? I'm not impressed.

What's left for a day that is starting out in full crap mode? A trip to Target, of course. Here's where the day starts getting better. Pushing a cart around, staring into the eyes of my little guy, I can't help but smile. He's reaching for things, talking up a storm, and basically warming me up from toe to head. A couple of swimsuits and a new toy later, our retail therapy session gave way to the need for a nap.

Here's where the bad day loses it's grip for sure.

Little Bird wakes up from his nap and begins chirping to himself in his crib. He talks to Mr. Bear, and plays with the mirror thing tied to the inside of the crib. I love it when he wakes up like this. I give him a few minutes to himself and then go upstairs to get him. I lean into his crib and tell him I'm going to get kisses when all of the sudden, he lays one on me.

My little boy planted a big smooch right on his mama's lips. Then he backed up, grinned, and threw his arms around my neck for a hug.

First kiss. I may not remember my first kiss from a sweaty pubescent suitor, but I will never forget this first kiss. It turned a very bad day into a much more bearable one.

Sorry, Cliff

It had to go. About 10 inches of hair hit the floor today. How very liberating. Clifford, I did put it off and think twice, but in the end, the shears won. If it makes you feel any better, my child cried and screamed when he saw me and clung to his Papa for dear life for what seemed like hours to me. He was not a fan of my new do.














In other news, my HCG levels were at 41 today. Which means that I'm pregnant. The nurse says reassuringly, "That's a good number," I guess because I don't sound very excited over her congratulatory call. It's hard to get excited about that when I was just telling everyone last month that I was pregnant. Then not. It's all becoming rather anticlimactic.

Humph. I'll believe it when - well - I was trying to pick a week, but I can't. Eight weeks? Twelve weeks? Twenty-four weeks? Who knows. Right now, I'm hopeful and scared. We would like for this to be a baby that comes along into our family say, Octoberish. But still. Humph.

Maybe, Baby.

Yakkity Yak

I blog in my head most of the time now. For some reason, I haven't been able to pull together cohesive posts as frequently as I used to. I blame it on busyness. I could blame it on distraction. The TV is on at night more than it used to be. Little Bird is awake more and eager to go go go.

It is worth noting that we have survived the first middle of the night vomit episode. Bird woke up Monday morning around 2:00 AM, and his cries were much more than just some nighttime stirring. I opened the door to his room and was hit with the putrid smell of acidic banana yogurt and cheese. Bird was covered in banana and noodles. He stood there in his crib, with this stunned look on his face, and then yakked up some more.

Needless to say, I've been a little busy with my boys. His daddy woke up as soon as I got back in bed around 4:30 AM, and ran to the bathroom to throw up. Both of my guys have needed extra loving care, so the post I have brewing about some amazing friends will have to wait just a little longer. It deserves more attention than I have to give it right this second.

For tonight, I give you some of the photos from Little Bird's one year old photo shoot. Which, of course, was almost a month ago. I am so behind on things. Enjoy.

Everything else can wait

Last week I found myself at a monthly gathering of women. It's mostly social, but the women on the invitation list are all very politically and community minded. I haven't been since I quit my job as director of a local non-profit. For some reason, I decided it was time to go back last week.

I baked my brownies to take, prepared dinner, and made sure that Kevin had everything he needed for Little Bird and himself before I left. Kevin was going to feed and bathe Bird and then I would be home to nurse and rock him to sleep.

When I arrived, I found the friend who I knew would be there. Getting to catch up with her for a few minutes was the deciding factor in my attendance in the first place. However, I didn't want to monopolize her entire evening, so after catching up for a few minutes, we moved on to join some other conversations.

After the common pleasantries regarding the wine, the food, and the view from the amazing downtown condo, the next question was always, "What do you do?"

I would answer, "I have a one year old. I stay at home with him."

Crickets chirping.

Chirp.

Chirp.

Chirp.

It is just the conversation stopper I had heard it would be.

Looking back on it, I could have said, "I'm a musician," or even "I'm a writer." Both are true, even if they aren't full-time work for me right now.

But the truth is, I do stay at home with my son. I am a mother first, and everything else comes after that. It was my natural reaction to answer that what I did was to be a mama.

The conversations didn't stop long. I was perfectly fine asking them about their jobs, talking about the economy, and even slipping back into conversations about the grants process and the state of arts funding in our community with a city councilwoman. Talking about what I used to do came naturally, and fit in with the evening, so I did it.

I don't want to only talk about what I used to do though, and on the way home, I thought it might be time for me to think about getting back into non-profit work. Maybe look into doing a little lobbying. I got excited driving home with possibilities of working for the community once again playing through my head.

As I walked through the front door, I had my mouth open, about to call out for Kevin. Before I could get a sound out, He came running on tiptoe down the stairs. Without the baby.

"Shhhhhhhhhh!" he said. "I've just gotten him to sleep."

All of the swirling thoughts that were spinning in my head dropped like anvils, and I started to cry. No rocking. No nursing. No Mama. He just went to sleep without me for the first time.

I realized right then that there was no job I could do that would be more important to me than being here for all the little things. Nothing that I could accomplish out there that would make me feel more fulfilled than to spend as much time with my son as possible right here.

Everything else can wait.

One Little Sheep

There is a story in the Bible about a shepherd with 100 sheep. One night, he is putting all of the sheep back in their pen and only counts 99 of them. He secures the 99 sheep and then goes to search high and low for the one missing sheep.

My heart hurts today for that one missing sheep.

Some of you know that I used to be the executive director for a non-profit music school for children from low-income families. Hundreds of children who were considered "at-risk" youth came through the school while I worked there, and for the most part, I have all of these warm fuzzy feelings about success stories. Children who decided to go to college. Children who earned places in the premier youth orchestra here in town. Children who got music scholarships to college. A clarinetist who ended up the top player in the state and is now at Harvard. Children who I when I bump into them, still give me a hug and have something good to say about their experience at the school.

Funding was granted because of our successes and our mission. Who could say no to giving music lessons and instruments to at-risk youth? Even the White House thought the program was super and in 2004 I took one of our students there to accept a Coming Up Taller Award from Laura Bush. I was proud of the work we did and the families we helped.

This morning, I turned on the news and saw the other side of the coin.

About six years ago, there was a little boy who had all the cards stacked against him. He was withdrawn. His mother got him to lessons late if she got him there at all. He was unresponsive with his teacher, although he really really wanted to learn to play. He was 10 years old with a tough guy attitude already trapping him behind a thick defensive wall. When his lessons were over though, he would come see me while he waited for his mother who often had to be called long after his lesson was over and told to come pick him up. We would talk, rather, I would talk and he would give me one word answers and at least one smile every week. He was the kind of boy that I knew had it in him to do great things, but had no support system. I fought like crazy to keep him in the program. Convinced his teacher weekly to be patient with him, rode his mother to get him there and get him there on time, and skirted around the attendance rules so that he wouldn't be kicked out. By the time he was 13, he disappeared. Phone disconnected, mail returned. Lost from our radar.

Last night he was arrested for murder. He's 16 years old.

It breaks my heart. It reminds me to look at the kids who get into trouble with the law and remember that at some point, somebody believed in them. It reminds me that most of the time, these are kids who had insurmountable issues at home, if they even had a home. Sure, they made their own choices and have to answer for them, but somewhere along the way, he was let down by the people who should have done right by him.

When I saw his mugshot on the news, I didn't see a murderer. I saw the little boy who never lost his drumsticks and always wanted to have his lesson even when his ride dropped him off so late that the next student had already started.

This little boy had potential to succeed, and the adults in his life failed him. Then he failed himself. I'm just so sad. I wish that I had tried harder to find this one sheep and keep him with us. Keep him in a program where he could learn self respect, good self esteem, and self discipline.

The 99 continue to make it worth all the work, but my heart is broken today for the one little sheep.

Cross posted at Triangle Mamas.

Respect the blog

"I may be just a little fairy, but I have a big vocabulary!"

It's my favorite line in Abby Cadabby's song "I Love Words." Christopher and I watch that video on the Sesame Street website at least three times a week. He sits on my lap and bounces while I sing along.

Although I haven't followed the 'no TV before 2' rule, we read far more than we watch TV. He gets about 15-20 minutes of Sesame Street in the afternoons, and on Sunday morning, we usually watch a weird little show called "Lomax, the Hound of Music." However, in this house, books rule. I want for my children to love words as much as I do.

I love reading words. I love writing words. I love prose, poetry, song lyrics. I will read anything. Cereal boxes, recipes, old letters that I've read 100 times before - it doesn't matter. I am fascinated by how words fit together like puzzle pieces to create exactly the right picture. Even when the words are crammed together like clowns in a tiny car and don't quite seem to work? I still love them.

I don't pretend to be a writer. Well, maybe I do, but not a good one. A few months ago, I took an online creative non-fiction class. The instructor was quite good, and I enjoyed the assignments very much. Truth is, I don't have the discipline to be a good writer right now. I would much rather sit down at my blog and type out what I could pay someone $200 an hour to listen to than craft rough draft after rough draft.

However.

The importance of these words cannot be discounted. I have found my words splogged across other sites. Ideas I have had and started here continue on without a mention of where they began. It's not cool. It's disrespectful. It needs to stop. Especially the particularly nasty sites where some perky titted naked chick poses above one of my posts about my baby. Creepy and wrong.

Kelly is spelling it out. Her writing made for a lovely article in The Times online. Only they didn't link to her. They mentioned her, but used huge amounts of her material without even a single link. No respect.

Mommyblogging is a radical act. We've discussed it. We all know it. We are telling the stories of motherhood in a new day and age. Connecting across boundaries that once were too far and too wide to reach. There is power in our writing and in our community.

It's time for us to respect ourselves and demand it from others too.

Respect the blog.








Go on over to Don Mills Diva and join the revolution. You deserve it.

To cut or not to cut, the very uncontroversial version

I have had a little touch of the grouchies. Not sure why, and there is always a reason why. I'm just not really interested in figuring out what it is right now.

Instead, I contemplate my hair. Which is long. And boring. And a pain in the arse to deal with. It's long and really really thick. I mean really thick. It wants to be curly, and parts of it are incredibly curly. Like tight corkscrew curls. Unfortunately, the top layer is just a little wavy, so it doesn't match. That leaves me to straighten it most of the time, and that takes about 45 minutes to an hour.

I just don't have that kind of time or patience anymore.

Plus, I don't want to be that forty-something year old woman who still has long hair because
a) She's always had long hair.
b) She can't think of anything else to do with it.
c) She thinks it makes her look younger.
d) No one has told her that it makes her look way older.

Of course I have awhile to go before I'm forty-something. But I have that itch anyway. The cut the hair itch. It grows back, right?

I'm open for suggestions.

Keeping Up

I've been able to keep up with Marty and know that she had a baby. Her ex-husband realized that everything was for the best when he heard about it.

I can't quote that. It's a second hand conversation that a former friend had with a current friend of mine, and I don't even remember exactly what she told me. But that line keeps playing through my head in one form or another.

This person, a person who violently ejected himself from my life, is able to keep up with me. I don't know how. I don't know why. I do wish that he wouldn't. I do wish that he cared as little about me and what is going on in my life as I do about him and what is going on in his life. When you rip apart a relationship the way he did, you move on.

At least I do.

He is friends with my ex. Hence the information that the birth of my child gave my ex some sort of cosmic peace about our divorce. I'm so thrilled. Good for him.

This is, of course, the same man who announced to me after years of dicking around with no career but plenty of school loans - and I can quote this one, because I will never forget it - "Someone should just give me a job."

His lack of follow through, his inability to live up to promises made, his stagnant lifestyle, all of these things were things he could control. Things he could have changed. Things he could have grown out of. Instead, he is choosing to find peace in our divorce because he is sterile and now I have a child.

Whatever helps him sleep at night.

However, I am in no mood to sit back and just let him be the victim anymore. He got a bum lot in life, not being able to have kids. I signed on for that bum lot with eyes open. We agreed that we wanted a family. Adoption is hard and costly and impossible when one of you quits their job and "goes back to school" right when you finish the application.

His choices, made long before I left him, should give him peace about the divorce. Not having to live with me anymore, as I had become a very unhappy, very mean person, should give him peace about the divorce. Being given a "get out of jail free" card to officially renig on every promise he made and couldn't keep should give him peace.

I will never understand why people wallow in the past the way they do. I guess I do it too in some ways. I mourn friendships that have played out. I get disappointed when people I trusted let me down.

But I don't seek out the people who have hurt me. I don't Google them. I don't continue following their lives. I have a switch that I can turn, and I simply don't care anymore. I'm not sure that's a good thing. It's most certainly a survival tactic. For someone whose feelings get hurt as easily as mine do, it's a must. Mend the wound and prevent it from being reopened.

Besides, how smart is it to continue to immerse yourself in the life of someone who you know doesn't care about you? It's not smart at all. It's stupid to continue to watch from the sidelines, whether you are watching to see them fail, watching wistfully, or watching out of some sick curiosity. It's only hurting yourself.

Someone, more than one person actually, sent me the link to my ex-husband's blog. It's easy to find if you know the name of the band we had back in Mississippi. I don't go there though. It's his space, and I made a very clear legal decision that I don't wish to share space with him anymore. In theory, I wish him well and hope he's alright. In reality, I barely remember him.

And the people who used to be friends? Those wounds have lost their scabs and earned their scars. I don't wonder about them. I don't ask about them. It's done. I consider myself cleansed of some nasty toxic relationships.

Yet they still "keep up." Amazing. I am so not that interesting. Really.

Little Bird Turns One

Last night, I was rocking and nursing Little Bird to sleep, thinking about where we were at that time one year ago. It was still several hours from when we would meet, and both of us were already exhausted. It was his due date, but not his birth date. That came today. Looking down at him, I couldn't believe that it only took one year for him to change so much.

Where the little baby used to be, a little boy has moved in, and I love him.

There are so many new things. I can't keep up with them all. Last week he started walking. He figured out that the telephone was to talk into, and now he can't get enough of it. He plays with his rhythm instruments in perfect time. He repeats back more of what we say to him in such perfect mimicry that it's already making me clean up my language. His nana will thank him for that one.

By far though, the most wonderful thing he has learned is how to hug. I don't know when he learned it or from whom. However, that makes it all the better. No one was intentionally teaching him how to hug, but obviously he was getting plenty of them because now he is a virtual hugging machine.

At his birthday party on Saturday, he leaned over and spontaneously hugged Little A, my friend T's seven year old. He frequently leans out of my arms to hug his big sister, Mallory, or his daddy. Today, instead of waving good bye to his Papa, he hugged him. He hugs the dogs. He hugs his stuffed animals.

He hugs his mama. And I melt into a puddle of happy mama tears.

This little baby. This little boy. This little person. He is so becoming himself, and what I see him becoming is a very sweet and loving child. Nothing could make me prouder.

Happy birthday, Little Bird. Your mama loves you more than you know.

The Sleep Wall

I have hit the sleep wall. Something is up with Little Bird, and the sleep is not there.

After three nights of newborn like not with the sleeping, I was completely on edge Wednesday. My voice was drowning in the exhaustion I had been wading through the first part of the week.

The problem is, once I get that tired, it's harder and harder to fall asleep. My head hits the pillow and all I can do is think about how if I go to sleep the baby is going to wake up in five minutes. I lay in the bed thinking that it would just be easier to stay awake.

So I do. I am awake. Staring. Breathing. Anxious. Wiped out. When I do drift away, I find myself locked in dreams playing out my nervousness in made up battles from places in my brain I never visit.

Pills to sleep make me feel squishy inside. I don't like them, but I've swallowed them like a good girl. And now I pray for sleep. For me and my Little Bird.

After all, we have a birthday party to throw for a sweet little boy who turns 363 days old tomorrow. There will be pictures, and I also have pictures of him as a Little Snow Bird. Soon. After sleep.

Nighty night.

2009 - The Year of the Mom

Most days, I still forget to think of myself as a mom. Little Bird is almost one now, and a lot of times it still amazes me that I'm "Mama" to someone.

I'm not a woman who feels like she has lost her identity after becoming a mother. It's quite the opposite really.

I feel like I've finally found myself.

Yesterday I went to get a haircut. The first one since July. My poor Trish. I might be solely responsible for any economic downturn in my life. I was a regular cut, color, wax on her schedule. Now Kevin colors my hair on a Saturday night after Christopher is asleep for the night, and my hair is just, well, just long. Nothing fancy. Just ridiculously long.

Anyway, I walked into the salon in a sweatshirt and a ponytail. I hadn't even brushed my hair through in 2 days, but not because I don't care how I look. Actually, I burned the crap out of my head with the flat iron last Sunday and the quarter sized blister I left on my scalp was still healing. Trish saw me and I knew what she was thinking.

I struck a pose about five feet from her and said, "I know. I'm sexaaaaaaay."

She laughed and said, "You never imagined yourself like this, did you?"

I laughed too, and shook my head. No, I didn't. My old job required me to look like I made more money than I did (gotta love running a non-profit), so I at the very least needed to look put together. Granted, I was also working with kids, so there was a little leeway, but still. When you are asking for money all the time, the rule is, you need to look like you already have it.

I digress. As usual. Do you ever get to the middle of your post and ask yourself, "What in the world was I writing about?" That's where I am. I've got to go back and read. Hold on.

Right then. The Year of the Mom.

My resolution is probably different than a lot of other moms. I would actually like to learn how to do more as a mother. I have the 'me' thing down pat. I did the 'me' thing for 34 years, 11 months before Little Bird got here. That's a lot of 'me.' Even I don't need that much 'me.'

I don't long for afternoons away from my child so I can do all of the things I used to do. Manicures and pedicures aren't in the budget anymore anyway, so I can just punt that. What I long for are afternoons where I feel like I've taught my child something. I want to find all of the age appropriate outings in our hometown and do them. Go places. See things. Have fun. Learn all there is to learn.

I've always had a healthy competitive edge to me. Mostly, I'm competitive with myself - wanting to do the absolute best job that I can. Be better at whatever I'm doing than anyone else could be. Maybe that's a little of where my resolution comes from. Wanting to be the best mom I possibly can be.

It's also possible though, that I've had a lot of gigs, and this is - by far - the best gig ever.

If 2009 is the Year of the Mom, then I think it's going to be my favorite year yet.

This post is part of a blast with Kristen at Motherhood Uncensored where you can find a list of links to other mama resolutions.

It's as simple as this

There's nothing like losing a baby to make you want another one as of yesterday. It's amazing how it triggers my most primal maternal drives. Must. Get. Pregnant.

Bah. Can't fight time or Mother Nature. It will happen when it happens. I told a dear friend of mine that my only resolution this year was to chill the hell out. Just chill.

A friend asked me on Monday if I thought is was really more of a chemical pregnancy. I didn't respond, even though I don't think the question was meant to be insensitive. I think it was just a question. But it struck me. It immediately made me think of how women rate their losses almost like a competition. Like a loss at 12 weeks is more devastating than a loss at 5 weeks. A stillbirth is far more worthy of sorrow than a D&C at 10 weeks.

In a way, I don't disagree. However, it's not really about the weight of the loss. It's about the woman's reaction to the loss. I think two different women can have an equal reaction to two completely different situations. And that woman who lost her baby at 8 weeks has just as much right and room to grieve as much as any other woman who has suffered what some deem a "greater" loss.

I know that it is easier for me this time. I know that I will move on much faster than I did before. I know that there is another child for us, and I know that we can get pregnant, and that I can successfully carry and deliver a baby. These things are a comfort.

The fact of the matter is this. It didn't matter if it was a chemical pregnancy, a blighted ovum, an early miscarriage, or whatever. We didn't care. We were told we were pregnant. By sticks and by pricks. To us, that meant another baby on the way. We got excited, and we got let down. It's really that simple.

The nurse did call Monday afternoon and told me that the blood test was positive and then congratulated me. I cleared my throat and explained what was happening. She talked to the doctor who didn't feel the need to see me. Just ride it out, test again next week to make sure the HCG was gone (which it is, I can totally tell), and treat this like a nasty mean period.

So we move on. There's still time for another baby in 2009.

Thank you for all the kind words. I know that is another reason that this is easier. Support from amazing friends. I really appreciate it.

Just as quickly as it came

I was still so disbelieving last Friday that I had seen those two lines on a positive pregnancy test that I called the doctor. Went in for a blood test. I'm waiting on the results this morning although I know what they will say.

They will say that I was pregnant. Was.

Just as quickly as the news came and I got used to the idea of 2 under 2, just as quickly, I have to get used to the idea of it not happening.

The bleeding started last night. I woke up cramping in the middle of the night, and by this morning, my body hit full on "get it all out" mode. There isn't anything pleasant about it. It's one big painful bloody mess.

Over the weekend, we told people in real life. This idea of waiting to tell people just in case something happens? I'm over that. I don't know why we aren't supposed to tell about a baby until we are "sure it's going to stick." I don't know why miscarriage is a secret, dirty word. It happens to lots of us.

My guess is that it makes other people uncomfortable. My pain will make some people flinch. And truth be told, it is uncomfortable for me to be so open in real life. To stand in front of someone and be nakedly hurting isn't fun. It is slightly more comfortable than hiding it though.

So I stand naked. Three pregnancies. Two miscarriages. One baby. My reproductive history so far.

Just so far.

It is different this time. It is easier. For one, I knew it was possible. My first miscarriage took me so much by surprise that the first week thereafter was spent dealing with the shock. For two, Little Bird is here and particularly cuddly today. For three, no D&C. For four, I haven't spent seven more weeks preparing and planning - this is so early. So it's easier.

Easier doesn't mean less disappointed. It doesn't mean less sad. It does mean that I know how to handle the sad much better this time. It does mean that I'm not going to tail spin into a therapy inducing depression. But it doesn't mean I loved this one any less.

Mama to one. Stepmama to one. That is what the world sees.

We know though, that there are now four I hold in my heart.

In case you aren't following me on Twitter . . .

Leave it to me to need to eat my words more quickly than I can even swallow.

Remember this post?

And this one?

Well I had better get over myself, and fast. I had better find that baby love again, and I had better get used to sharing my time with more than just Christopher.

There's another egg in the nest where Little Bird was. A bun in the oven. Knocked up. With child. A Littler Bird. Whatever you want to call it.

I wasn't going to mention it, because you know, what if something happens? Then Kevin reminded me that if something happens, I'm going to want to talk about it, and not pretend like it didn't. So, here I am.

All pregnant and pausing.

I didn't run and grab the camera when the second line appeared this time. I didn't go jump into bed with Kevin and bounce him awake with the glorious news. I didn't celebrate right away. One day, I might feel guilty for that.

Instead, I peed on a stick and left it to go get Little Bird up and in a clean diaper. I sang the "Good Morning" song to him and cuddled the sweet spot on the back of his head that I love so much. I thought about it just being the two of us. I thought about nursing him. I thought about how not ready to wean he is.

Then I carried my little boy back into the bathroom where I found two lines. Faint, but there. Two of them. And I cried.

For some reason, my first reaction was that I was robbing Christopher of some of his babyhood. I immediately felt like it wasn't fair for him to have to share me while he was still so young. I was and am scared that this will terminate our nursing relationship before he is ready (although I've since picked up a copy of Adventures in Tandem Nursing and feel better about that).

Now that I have had a couple of days to process though, I realize that this next baby will always have to share me. He won't get any "just him" time. And Christopher? He is so little that he won't remember having me to himself - unless you count subconsciously, which my mother pointed out he would always subconsciously remember. I'm ignoring that for now.

Now that I've processed a little more, I realize that Little Bird and Littler Bird stand a good chance of being really good friends. I realize that we have decreased the number of years in diapers here. I realize that it's all going to be alright.

We wanted another one, and neither one of us is getting any younger. We obviously weren't preventing another one, excepting that I was counting and had been fairly regular until last month. I don't really care for the term "surprise baby." He isn't a surprise, just his timing is.

He is wanted and loved. Now or whenever.

And with that, I may have to go puke.

Bring on the Birthday

The house is in that state of upheaval on its way to order. I hate that state. There is a Christmas tub in every room, waiting for me to finish putting away a million Santas and only half the trees I usually have up. Usually it's all packed up in a day with the only sign of Christmas being the poinsettias I try to keep alive as long as possible and the dishes I pass off as "Winter dishes" instead of "Christmas dishes."

It doesn't matter though. Little Bird has another cold, and I spent most of the day wiping his little nose, chasing him down to wipe his little nose, and trying like crazy to get him to nap. At all. Ever. Even just for a minute.

It should be coming, you know. That post that mommybloggers write about how they can't believe their baby is almost ONE. Where did the year go? What happened to my little baby? I am sure I will write it at some point in some form.

Honestly though? I'm relieved Little Bird is slipping out of babydom.

Babies are hard. And often not fun. They are needy and demanding. They are exhausting.

I am not a mother who loves babies. In general.

I don't get all fluttery when I see a newborn, and my ovaries don't ache when I hold a beautiful baby. I did love being pregnant, and I didn't even mind childbirth (although Kevin says I have just forgotten the hell that was 2 days of labor).

But babies.

Thank God they grow up.

Christopher is fascinating to me. He always has been. I did have those days where I would stare at his tiny, wrinkly, squirming body with awe, wonder, and unfathomable love. But would I trade a day of watching my little man learn to reason and communicate for a day of mustard poop just so I could have some extra cuddles?

Not a chance.

Bring on the birthday. I'm looking forward to words, steps, and even the very real possibility of a strong will and firey temper. Both of which he most certainly got from his father. Because I am an angel.

And this time next year? When I've chased Christopher up and down the stairs 18 times and haven't finished a load of laundry (Go ahead and click. I love that post!) at one time in 4 months? I might reconsider.

But for now I'm really looking forward to being the mama of a toddler.

Poop from Beyond

I can't believe 2009 is here. It's the first year I finally feel grounded in a long time. Little Bird is here. Kevin has a job that he loves. Mallory is safely navigating her way through middle school. It feels like I finally might be able to move forward on some of my own goals that have been on the back burner. Songs. CD's. Music that has been playing in my head for only me.

That made me sound a little crazy. Which is probably pretty accurate.

We picked up the two big dummies from the kennel today. Aja, the English Setter, was aloof as usual. She had been given a bath today and was much more interested in being admired than she was showing us any hint that she had missed us.

Gibson, on the other hand, was a bouncing 90 pound bundle of nervous joy. Kevin said that when they removed his collar at the kennel last week, Gibson leaned into his leg and looked up as if to ask, "What did I do? I promise to be good." It was just a little over a year ago that we adopted him from the Wilson County Animal Shelter. A big beautiful Chocolate Lab, just sitting in a cage with no family. I might have been 36 weeks pregnant, but I didn't even consider saying "no" when Kevin suggested that Gibson come home with us.

The Setter has been Mallory's dog since the day they met. She loves that little girl. Or, perhaps she loves the little girl's bed. Either way, when Mallory comes home to us, the Setter actually gets off the couch to greet her. That's way more than me or Kevin ever get from her.

Gibson is Kevin's dog, although I'm working on staking a claim now too. For the first couple of months he lived with us, he would lay at the front door and whine when Kevin would leave for work. He has some pretty severe separation anxiety issues that we have finally worked through, but I still called the kennel multiple times to check on him while we were gone.

Chelsea, my sweet girl, was of course my dog. For 14 years, she and I were completely inseparable. This Christmas, there were so many times when I looked for her. I couldn't be in the kitchen without looking down to see if Chelsea just "cleaned the floor" for me. The stocking for the pups was missing the annual pink spikey football toy that I always found for Chelsea. It was all just a little sad for me.

Today, we were taking down the tree in the dining room. If just for a moment, my Chelsea was right back with me. For in the corner of the dining room, behind the tree, where only Chelsea could have squeezed, was a little pile of dried up dog poop.

I wasn't sure if I should be completely grossed out or so very sad that I would never clean up after Chelsea ever again. So I cried as I picked up the pile of shit.

That's my girl. Sending little gifts from beyond, just to let me know she's alright. Or, I suppose you could just look at it as a pile of petrified poo. Poo from across the Rainbow Bridge.

Someone is going to think this is funny with me. At least one person. I hope.

Not the Christmas post

There is so much to say about Christmas this year. There is so much to be grateful for, and so many stories to share.

However.

I am exhausted and have miles to go before I sleep.

Really though, I had to remember this. Little Bird got a new toothbrush. I had been cleaning his teeth, all 6 of them, with a wet cloth, but I thought I needed to start getting him used to the toothbrush.

We've been using it while in the bathtub, and to say that he doesn't like the bristles in his mouth would be an understatement. I try a couple of times and then set it on the side of the tub.

Little Bird grabbed the brush and decided to use it for something else.

Let's just say that Little Bird's little friend is extra clean tonight.

Boys.

We time

Little Bird has a cold. Low grade fever, snotty nose, little cough, and general patheticness. At 4:00 AM, he was awake without wanting to be. I changed him, wiped his nose, gave him some more saline drops, and nursed him back to sleep. As soon as his head landed on the crib mattress, he sat up, raised his arms, and let out a whimpering, "Maaaaamaaaaa."

How could I do anything but pick him up again?

We haven't co-slept since he was probably 3 or 4 months old. It got to where he wasn't sleeping well unless he had a booby in his mouth all night long, and I just couldn't handle that. He also liked to sleep perpendicular to me and Kevin - punching one of us in the back and kicking the other. Bird moved to the crib. We have all slept better ever since.

I miss the snuggles though, and I miss waking up right after he does to see his little face peering into mine, or better yet, have him sticking his finger in my mouth and poking at my teeth.

This morning, I lifted him back out of his crib, and we crept into the bedroom where Kevin was still asleep. I piled pillows into the bed around my side so that I could prop my arms up and hold Little Bird against my chest.

He burrowed into my shoulder, threw an arm over my chest, let out a sigh, and fell asleep.

I slept off and on, but mainly just rested. Listening to my son breathe, stroking his head, wiping his nose, and being overwhelmed with how much I love him.

I don't know when it happened, but there has been this shift in motherhood. Whereas I have always loved Little Bird and wanted to take care of him and sustain him, the first half of the year felt very much like it was something I had to do. It was my new job and my sole responsibility.

The shift though, is in my desire. Little Bird has become his own little person, and there is no one I would rather spend time with. My roots are taking over the top of my head, and I don't care. I don't want to spend the three hours away from Bird to get my hair done. Dinner out with friends? Not right now. Lunch is great, but it needs to be somewhere with a highchair because my favorite person is coming with me.

I assume there will be another shift, one in which I desire some "me" time. Right now though, I'm perfectly fine with the "we" time.

Little stitches

Kevin is very understanding of my "online friends." He doesn't give me any crap about going to BlogHer. He doesn't bat an eye when I run off to the Post Office to send a package to a NMD friend. When I quote Girl eighteen times in one day, he doesn't let out a single sigh. He knows they have supported me and carried me through some of my darkest times.

Last Saturday, the doorbell rang. We were in the bedroom getting dressed. I am pretty sure I was crying. I did a lot of that last weekend.

Kevin came back upstairs with a box from ProFlowers. I have to be honest; I assumed it was from my parents, but it wasn't.

The card read, "I'm sorry for your loss," and it was from my friend Amy. My online friend, Amy. A woman who I haven't even been so lucky to sit down with in person managed to wrap her arms around me from miles and miles away and put the first stitch in my broken heart. Amazing.

This is what they look like today. Everyday this week, this is what I see when I leave the house. I put them by the front door on purpose. It used to be that the last thing I would see when I left the house was Chelsea. She would follow me to the front door and look up at me as I said, every time, "I'll be back soon. Be a sweet girl." Every time. Until the past couple of months, when she stopped getting up to follow me to the door.

Nonetheless, the last thing I saw leaving the house were these flowers. Reminding me that I'm a lucky woman to have friends like Amy.

Little stitches in a broken heart. I bet she has no idea how much she helped, but Kevin and I do. Now you do too.

Complete lack of human compassion

Chelsea and I were at peace with each other when she left this past Friday. Although I miss her more than you possibly want to hear about, I know that it was time for her to go, and it was my responsibility to help her leave this life. I promised to be her guardian and caretaker, and I was for 14 years. All the way up to the very end.

There was a part of the story I didn't tell on Friday. I didn't want to mar saying goodbye to my pup anymore than had been done for me that day. The experience we had at the vet was unbelievable, and I wavered on whether to share it at all. However, if anyone is searching for this vet online, I think it is important that they hear how we were treated.

Quail Corners Animal Hospital, where I had trusted the care of my dogs for close to eight years now, will no longer be our vet. There was a girl who was supposed to be scheduling it to be done at home for us. Two days went by without her calling me back, only to find out that the vet who was supposed to do it had gone into labor. While I certainly understood that labor and birth took priority, I didn't understand why I hadn't been extended the courtesy of a phone call to give me this information. Instead I had to keep calling back, trying to find out what time I would say goodbye to my pup. I needed to find someone to watch Bird and really wanted Kevin to be off work to be with us. I needed to prepare myself mentally and emotionally.

After two days of not letting me know anything except how little she knew, I finally told her that I would just bring Chelsea in to have it done. She told me the vets who were available, and after I chose one, she asked me if I wanted morning or afternoon. I told her afternoon. She offered me 1:30, and I said that would be fine. I repeated back the time to her, and she said yes 1:30 was the time.

I called Kevin and let him know. Then I called Boo who had offered to be with me, and I asked her to watch Little Bird. I set the whole thing up for 1:30. I did not get the time wrong of the death of my dog.

When we arrived at the vet, we were told by the front desk that our appointment wasn't until 4:30. The woman at the front told us there was nothing she could do to change it.

Seriously?

I'm sitting there in the waiting room, bawling already. Chelsea is just standing there because she can't lay down without just falling over anymore. Kevin is standing with his mouth agape. It was all I could do to get there once. There was no way I could go home and bring her back again.

Seriously? Nothing she could do?

I told her through my tears that she didn't need to change anything; that our appointment was at 1:30, and we were there at the right time. I wasn't going to even entertain this discussion.

She just repeated herself.

I start sobbing. I can't help it. I tell her that I had been working with Rachel for three days to get this taken care of, and that I had been extremely patient with her. I told her that our appointment was at 1:30.

She went to get Rachel.

We have to believe that something else was going on in the office because Rachel approached us swinging. She came out and immediately told me we were wrong. I was wrong. Our appointment was at 4:30 and that she had confirmed it on the phone with me for 4:00. Um, okay. I'm not sure how that made any sense, but whatever.

I have to admit. I lost it. I actually yelled. In public. At that girl. I yelled at her and told her she was incompetent. I yelled at her and told her that she was completely unable to engage another adult in an intelligent conversation that resulted in effective communication. I yelled at her and told her to quit talking to me and just get me all of my dogs' records so I could get out of there and never have to see her again.

The whole time, she was yelling back at me, telling me that I was wrong. Telling me that the circumstances were out of her control. I'm not sure what circumstances kept her from inputting the correct time of my appointment into the computer, but whatever.

Kevin stepped in between us and told us both to stop. He looked at Rachel and asked her what she was going to do to fix this. She said that she couldn't do anything right then, that we could be worked in at 2:30.

I told her to get our records and she yelled over Kevin's shoulder that she would be glad to do that and then stormed out of the little office cubby.

After she was gone, another office worker came out into the waiting room and leaned over to me. She said that there was a vet who could help us then. Kevin took my arm and nodded at me to get up and go back. He knew that this was the one chance we had at my strength. It was sapped, and if we took Chelsea back home again, I would never let her go.

There were mumbled apologies at the "mix-up." I ignored them. There was no "mix-up." It was a major mistake on their part.

The thing is, even if I had gotten the time wrong, which I didn't, they should have ignored it. Obviously, I wasn't in some sort of hurry that I deceptively came in with my dog and tried to get them to put her to sleep 3 hours before my scheduled time. That's freaking absurd.

Any ounce of compassion would have caused the very first woman in the office to ignore the discrepancy between the time we arrived and the time that Rachel the genius entered in the computer. She would have quietly slipped into the back and found the vet who helped us in the end, and made everything work out without subjecting us to the drama that their incompetency created.

This isn't a rant, it is simply what happened that day. In the event that someone Googles this vet, it is the chance for them to see how they might be treated if they choose to go there.

It was hard enough to make the decision. It was hard enough to get in the car with my pup. It was hard enough to get out of the car and take her inside for the very last time. To say goodbye.

I will never understand how they could possibly treat someone in so much obvious pain as badly as they treated me.

Long goodbye

It's done. Chelsea left us today around 2:00 PM. She died with her head in my hands, and me telling her how much I loved her.

I have spent the day swinging wildly between knowing I was doing the right thing and doubting that I could ever have the wisdom to end her life.

One bite of yogurt spooned into Little Bird's mouth, and I'm smiling at Kevin, telling him that I'm relieved that my sweet pup isn't in pain anymore. By the time I'm catching what Bird spit out on the spoon, I'm sobbing that she didn't want to leave me and I miss her so much.

I'm basically a wreck.

The thing is, logically I know it was right. They gave her a little Valium before the big drugs, and she was finally able to bend her back legs and lie down again. Finally, she lay with her head in my lap again; something she hadn't done for over a year.

Only after the Valium, I wanted to scoop her up and take her home. I wanted to say, "Thanks! That was just what she needed!" and run away with her.

But it was time.

The front office at vet handled it horribly, but I need to think about how to write about it before I put it out there. I knew that it was going to be hard to do, but the incompetence of the office workers made it so much harder, I don't even know what to think tonight.

For tonight, I'm just going to stay in the place where I miss her, I love her, and I pray that I did the best thing for her. It's tenuous enough to stay in the confidence that I did right by her.

Fourteen years, my best girl. My most consistent companion through all of the biggest changes in my life.

I love you, Chels.

Giveaway at Triangle Mamas

Remember this song?

This week at Triangle Mamas, you can enter to win your own copy of the CD, Blue Ridge Reunion, and the book of watercolors of the North Carolina mountains that accompanies it.

I hope you will click over and enter to win!

Craftacular

Over the past year or so, I have developed a love of handmade things. Esty is a website that should be banned from my computer. I've spent entirely too much time and money there.

Those who know me in real life know that I am not creative outside of music or cooking. It's just not in me.

Or so we thought.

I now present to you, the family Christmas stockings, made by moi, because I was too damn cheap to purchase personalized stockings. Well, that, and the ones I found that I liked wouldn't allow the 11 letters in my son's name.

I do believe I am officially crafty.

Not quite yet

It's almost time.

Chelsea, otherwise known as "Pupstar" here, is 14. She has kidney failure. Her back legs frequently give out on her, as does her bladder - whenever and where ever. She has sores that won't heal, and is on antibiotics for a tooth abscess.

In fact, she is on five medications at every meal and eats prescription dog food. The money spent on my dog would be embarrassing compared to what some families can spend on a child each month.

But she has been my constant companion for 14 years.

Ashley found her for me. A girl we were in school with found this tiny white puppy wandering along the side of the road. Ashley went to see it before they took it to the pound, and called me when she got there.
"Bird, you have got to come see this pup."

"I can't do that. If I come over and see the pup, you know it's coming home with us."

"Bird, you have got to come see this pup."

Chelsea came back to the apartment with us and proceeded to terrorize Ashley's cats, Tess and Todd; pee on her notes, biology; and basically win the hearts of everyone who met her. Except possibly Farrar, whose eggnog she simply wouldn't give up drinking.

Fourteen years later, Chelsea is still with me. We've moved five times. We've lived with six different people. We've had five different dogs join our family, and countless fosters come and go. We've been married and divorced and married again. She's tolerated Little Bird taking her place as the baby, but not without climbing into the Moses basket for a nap more than once.

But she is worse now. Even with the Pepcid, she is vomiting again. She isn't as excited about dinner time as she once was. I often have to lift her up the two steps in from the backyard. She lays at my feet, but doesn't stir when I get up.

It's almost time.

But it's not time.

I told her this morning, whispered in her ear, that she could go now. That I loved her and that she was a good dog. I looked into her eyes and kissed her little snoot. Of course, she's deaf, and a dog, so I don't know what good that did, but it made me feel a little better.

I'm hoping she goes in her sleep. I don't want to make that call to the vet. I will if I have too, but I just don't want to.

She is the best dog ever.















Chelsea with her Christmas elf moments before gutting it.

Advent blogs

It certainly didn't take long for me to fall out of the habit of posting.

Of course, this past weekend we put up a couple of Christmas trees. Only one live one this year, due to the baby on the loose. I bought a beautifully tacky silver pre-lit tree for the family room. It's only four feet tall and is safely posed upon a table, out of the reach of Mr. Kickypants.

I am distracted easily by shiny Christmas things and the laughter of my child. Writing is still important, but so is playing with the Little People Nativity set that Nana sent.

There is someone who is posting everyday though, two people, actually.

The first is Momma. She is posting an Advent devotional everyday this month. I really hope that if you are looking for something to enrich your Christmas season, that you will go over and visit her. She wrote the series for the church she is attending now, but is posting it daily on her blog.

The second is Heather. She is posting a musical Advent calendar on her blog. It was something I truly enjoyed last year and was so happy to see her doing it again. I hope you will bookmark her and start each day this season with music carefully selected for you by CGF.

Now, I've got some Christmas stockings to finish for my family. I promise pictures for my inspirational crafting goddess friend, Girl.