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.

Smash and Bird

On my self imposed shutdown, I stayed busy. Little Bird alone is enough to fill my entire day. Somewhere between books, music, naps, walks, meals, and baths, I had projects.

I made a purse for my friend, Constance; a quilt for my niece, Elisa; pirate costumes for Bird and Kevin; and a pirate wench dress for myself. The sewing machine was humming.

Something else I did was join Facebook. Took the time sucking plunge. I found some friends from high school and junior high school. I found my dear friend Lisa and found solace in similar stories. I found lots of my blogger friends I had been missing. I found girls from our psuedo- sorority at my very strange college.

And I found my Ashley again.

There is once in a lifetime, I think, a friend who slips through the cracks and you can't remember how it happened. Moves. Marriages. What have you. Whatever. We lost touch.

Then on the Facebook page of a high school friend, I saw my old roommate.

And we haven't missed a step.

Kevin is a little baffled over it, I think. I mean, I have friends - wonderful friends - but there is only one Ashley. I drop her name in conversations like she was never missing. Like we never unconnected and reconnected.

Tonight we were texting back and forth when dinner was ready. My phone kept going off between bites. It makes this horrible little shrill sound, and Kevin began wincing every time it went off. Because I am the sweet Shamoopie, I silenced it.

I was in the kitchen getting Kevin another Diet Mountain Dew when my phone began vibrating across the table. It was hardly a less annoying sound. I braced myself for the impatience headed my way, but instead he just laughed.

"Ashley?" he said.

"Yep," I said grinning over my shoulder at him.

All was forgiven. After all, it was Ashley.

One more thing. I had forgotten that she had a nickname for me.

Bird