Tales From the Frontlines

So Little Dog has been taken out of daycare and is now staying home during the day with a nanny. For purposes of anonymity we'll call her the NannyElite or NE for short. We share her services with another family to share the expense and to keep Ansel social, but that's a whole different story.

One of my favorite things about having a nanny in our home is that she has become a part of our family. She and I can talk about the kids, have developed a friendship (I claim I'm old enough to be her unwed teenage mother, she likes to say I'm like her older sister) and she tells me stories about what cute or funny things the kids do during the day.
This is one of those stories:

Yesterday I was running late for work and I asked NE if I could leave Big Dog home too. She agreed and I ran off to work. Big Dog loves NE and tends to have a great time when he stays home with her.
While Little Dog and Big Dog were having lunch, they could see their dad outside, working on the foundation.
Big Dog started waving and yelling "Hi Poppa! I love you!"
Little Dog watched this, and decided to join in. "Hi Poppa! Where da cookies?"
Guess he has different priorities.

Dusting Off My Backbone

Well, I've done it. I finally fired the housekeepers. Don't think that I just managed to muster up the courage to finally express my dissatisfaction with their service. That would have been the adult thing to do. No, yesterday an opportunity presented itself and I jumped on it.

While cleaning the house in preparation for my husband's parents to visit, specifically keeping the bathrooms, the children's play room and the kitchen for the bleach queen to tackle, I looked at the clock. It was late, really late, and I'd not heard a peep from our cleaners. I called the service, left a message asking what happened and soon got a call back. They were running behind and weren't going to make it that afternoon. They'd be here first thing in the morning.

I jumped on this opportunity and told them that "unfortunately, that doesn't work for me." They needn't come tomorrow morning, and in fact, they need not come back at all, except to return the key. I had relied on them to be there, and they failed to show up, or even communicate that they were not going to make it. He protested slightly, then gave up.

Despite his efforts to keep me as a client I'm sure in the back of his mind he was thinking "Oh thank God I won't have to enter that house of filth again" because in the back of my mind I was thinking "Oh crap, now I have to find another house keeper!", but such is life.

They Might Be Crazy, But it's My Brand of Crazy

Having a preschooler tell you he wants to eat your juicy innards may be unexpected for many, but it is just one of many running jokes in our family. At one point I made the threat of eating Big Dog's "juicy innards" and for whatever reason, it stuck. He either threatens to eat mine, or shrieks with mock terror as I threaten to devour his. Little Dog is in on this act too, he'll squeal "No INNARDS!" or the close 18 month old approximation of that, which is clear as day to anyone in our family. For the record, it sounds something like "No nin-nar!"
It doesn't stop there. We have fun making up nonsense directions or phrases. The latest to catch on is "No cows in the igloo!" Funny enough when it is said by Big Dog, but funnier still when Little Dog tries to wrap his mouth around it. "No ig-ga-lu-lu" with a funny poking out tongue. This simple nonsense phrase is enough to stop bad behavior in its tracks. Imagine a toddler, getting ready to pitch a tantrum, prompted by his older brother "No cows in the igloo!" He immediately needs to reply, and the tantrum is averted.

Sometimes I forget just how odd our family is. It is brought to my attention by the quizzical look of an outsider. This weekend Big Dog and I went to Trader Joe's to do the grocery shopping, as we were checking out, he refused to move aside so I could begin unloading the cart. I asked nicely a couple of times, and then resorted to very odd threats.
"Big Dog," I said, "If you do not move out of my way, I will be forced to nibble up your hand, and it is very hard to play with playdoh one handed."
He laughed, and stepped aside as I leaned down to make a false attempt to nibble his hand "Grum grum grum grum!"
As I leaned in for this, I noticed an older woman in the next check out lane looking on and smirking slightly. She wasn't judging so much, as looking on at our parent-child relationship with amusement. I guess I am not a super traditional mom after all.

Despite my inherent strangeness, I am wildly popular with the boys at Big Dog's preschool. They love to play a name calling game with me in which we say hello and good bye, but add a nickname that relates to a food item. For example "Well hello, Mr. Hamburger Bun!" which would receive the reply "Hi Mustard!" or something along those lines. This is hilarious to 4 year olds for some reason, and effectively ended the age guessing game they played earlier. (note, these children may appear as adorable moppets, but when one sees the pain in your eyes after saying "you're 45!" you realize they take joy in inflicting that same pain again and again.- for the record, I AM NOT 45!) One of the teachers at the preschool stepped in once and tried to stop the food-name game, but we have kept it going, just taking a special care when she is in the classroom. (She's a bit of a control freak, so she isn't so into my "class participation")

On occasion, at the end of the day, some of Big Dog's classmates beg to come home with us. I have found it effective to say "Oh yes, please do. We're having cat food and worms for dinner!", after they groan or reject that meal, I say "Really? You don't like that? After we eat our cat food and worms, we're going to roll around in the garbage! Want to come?" And that pretty much puts an end to that request.

I figure soon enough, this will all become far too embarrassing for Big Dog. He'll cringe when I come to pick him up at a friend's house. He'll have his fingers crossed, just hoping against hope that I won't make a lame joke, or try to "fit in" with his friends. But for now, he loves it and that's good enough for me.

We Each Find Our Own Happiness, Don't We

This weekend I have had it hit home that I will not have my first baby, my Mao, in my life forever. At one point it was just too much and I was crying about the potential loss, and the pain that my little Mao was feeling. Big Dog found me and started to worry. He came and sat with me and asked why I was crying.
"Mao is very sick and he is not going to get better. I am sad because I know that he will not be with us for a long time. One day he will be gone and won't come back" I tried to explain
"Is Nikita sick?" He asked.
"No, she's fine, baby. Nikita is healthy"
"Then I'll go get Nikita and bring her here and that will make you happy," he offered.
"Oh sweetie, that's so nice of you, but sometimes mommies are just sad. It's ok to be sad from time to time. There is a lot that makes me happy. But right now I'm sad about Mao."
"What makes you happy, mommy" He asked.
"You make me happy, honey" I replied
"What else?"
"Little Dog makes me happy, and Poppa makes me happy."
"What else, mommy?" he asked again.
"Aunt Kathleen and Grandma and Grandpa make me happy"
"And what about JC?"
"Yes, he makes me happy too"
"What else?" he asked, still wanting more
"A good book makes me happy" I replied.
"And coffee?"
"Oh yes, coffee makes me happy" I said, with a little laugh, this kid has my number!
"What else?" he continued.

Soon he had me listing all the things in the world that I love, all the things that make me smile. Like a little therapist, he had me focusing on all the good things, all the happiness in my life.
When I couldn't come up with another thing to say, I asked him what made him happy.

"Only one thing," he said
"Really? What is it?" I asked, poising myself to give him a huge bear hug when he says I am that one an only thing.
"Playing with my trains," he replied, in a dry, matter of fact way.
So the Big Dog giveth and the Big Dog taketh away, I freakin' love this kid.

Failing Kidneys, Broken Hearts

I am still trying to come to terms with the idea that Mao's kidney failure will eventually cause me to lose him. Slightly less than 18 months ago, our vet gave me the bad news. Mao's kidneys were beginning to fail. This is common in his breed, but I had hoped we'd be in the lucky group of shar pei owners that miss this sad and painful end. He'd been so healthy and happy. He had been drinking more and peeing more, but he was playful and puppyish. I was stunned.

After the initial shock, I discovered that this is not an immediate death sentence for dogs. That with proper treatment they can live on for months or years, but in the end, the damage can't be reversed and will continue to progress. We put him on a low protein diet. We made sure he got lots of fresh water and he seemed to be doing well.

It wasn't until a few months ago, I took him to the vet dentist to discuss having a broken tooth pulled that I discovered his outward appearance wasn't quite in line with his internal health. She did routine bloodwork to find id his kidneys were in god enough shape to risk putting him under anesthetic, and found that his kidney failure had progressed. Significantly. In fact, it appeared that one of the critical values had doubled. I was once again stunned.

We took Mao back to the internal medicine vet specialist, and she confirmed it. The kidney failure was progressing. It was inevitable but it was progressing faster than we had hoped. She did a check for a kidney infection and a few days later the test came back positive. We put him on a long course of antibiotics in an attempt to solve this. We did that and he seemed to be fine again. Another interval passed and he started to vomit and lose weight. Dave too him back to the vet and his values were up, way up. We started giving subcutaneous fluids and it helped, for a bit, his values went down, but then a few weeks later, they were back up. He'd lost more weight, he refused to eat his special food, but was mad for any table scraps or food dropped by the kids. We went back to the vet. We are upping his subcutaneous fluids and reintroduced the antinausea medication. We've scrapped the kidney diet and are feeding him a special home prepared chicken and rice combo that Dave has created. He's eating and seems to be feeling better, but I know it is all a matter of time.

I am struggling to understand how I will be able to carry on without him. I'm worried that I will be so emotionally devastated that I won't be able to help the boys understand. I'm worried that my own grief will be too great, that I will break because of this loss.

I don't know how to explain to my babies, my boys, that long before I was even sure I wanted to have human children, I was honing my mothering skills on my furry little ball of wrinkles. I don't know how to tell them that he has and always will hold the honors of being the first real mothering experience I had.

Peace on Earth for $18.95 (plus tax)

Weekends at the Dog house are often filled with heated property wars. One small hand prying a chosen toy out of an even smaller hand. Shouts of "MINE" followed by shouts of "NO" followed by physical attacks and crying or screaming. Ah, the golden days!

And yet, as I sit here writing this, I'm watching my two boys play calmly on the floor with a selection of overpriced wooden Thomas the Tank Engine trains. How have I managed to create this blissful peace in my home? I bought Little Dog a train of his own. Little Dog is now the proud owner of Henry, the big green engine. I let Big Dog help pick it out, and made a big show of "both of my boys getting a brand new train!" Had I known that was all it would take, I would have shelled out the cash long ago.

Oh, wait, it's over. They're back to killing each other. In fact, Little Dog just used his new train to bash Big Dog in the head. Well, back to the drawing board.

Is it the mom jeans? Really, I want to know.

I have lost my ability to pass. I am easily made for what I am. A mother. It isn't a bad thing, but it has become so obvious that I can no longer pretend to be a carefree childless thirty-something.

Is it the tattoo on my forehead that says "Mom of Two"? Is it my high waisted, pleated jeans? I kid, I kid, no tattoo or mom jeans here. It must be the constant look of fatigue, the wistful smiles at other people's babies, the knowing laughs at outrageous behavior of other kids. Or it could be the shopping cart full of Annie's Bunny Cracker, apple sauce, whole milk and sting cheese.

At very least I don't dress the part. No mom jeans, no "I heart my boys" sweatshirts. I try to stay true to my roots. I've even passed the phase of leaving the house with undetected spit up in my hair. I wear makeup when I leave the house, I put together "real" outfits, well, more or less, when I'm not going to be in for the day. I even cut and color my hair regularly, but the stink of motherhood is upon me.

I guess I'll just have to be content to try to be a "cool" mom. Unconventional, styled and quirky, but an obvious mother none the less.

Have I somehow offended you?

People like to buy gifts for kids. They do. In some way, it allows us to become a child again, to peruse the aisles of toys, to dream about what you would have wanted when you were the birthday boy or girl. It's fun. I get that.

What I don't get is what I have done to some of my friends and family members to make they buy the most obnoxiously loud toys, the ones that grunt, groan, play irritating songs, have sirens roughly equivalent to an air raid siren, and above all things, cannot be turned off.

We recently opened a Christmas gift that a close friend gave my Big Dog (yes, opening Christmas gifts in September, sounds terrible, but really it just spreads the joy across the entire year!) and discovered this cute remote controlled safari truck made the most hideous noise. It is amazing how an innocent and entertaining looking toy can make such terrible sounds. It screams like a monkey, it trumpets like an elephant, it makes any number of other ungodly noises. And the finest feature of this toy is it is impossible to lower the volume or, more importantly, turn the noise off. Well, at least impossible as far as I can figure out. The bottom of the toy does have the "no sound" icon printed on the bottom, but it is on a non-moving part of the toy. A little joke by the toymaker as far as I can tell, since I have tried everything and this icon just seems to be decorative, mocking me as I suffer the screeching and howling of this toy. Why are they doing this to me? What have I ever done to them? And the bigger question, what did I do to this fried to inflict this toy upon my peace-loving household?

Naturally the kids love it. It has been in nearly constant use since we unpackaged the demon plaything. Taking it away really isn't an option either. That would just replace the screams of the safari truck with the screams of my darling children. And really, that's only worse because they can follow me from room to room and grab at my clothing. My only recourse is to endure the cacophony of sounds this toy produces while I silently plot my revenge. I swear, if Besty every has kids, she has some serious payback coming her way. If they don't already make a rattle that sounds like a chainsaw, I'll just have to invent one. Really, she deserves it.

If loving my Dyson is wrong, I don't want to be right!

As you can probably imagine, a household with two dogs, two children and two relatively sloppy adults generates a lot of filth. We have a housekeeper. We try to stay on top of things, but it frequently gets out of hand. One task that I have routinely performed is vacuuming. I actually enjoy it. I find it satisfying to hear the crud deposited on my floor being sucked away into a containment unit.

Recently the hubby took a turn a with the rug maintenance and was deeply dissatisfied with our current vacuum's ability to get rid of the dog hair and demanded that we get a new one. Amazing statement from the man who never likes to buy anything. He actually instructed me to go out and shop.

My first step was to look at Consumer Reports. They had some strong opinions on which vacuums sucked, in the good way, and the bad. I then took that information to the web and googled reviews of the top rated vacuums. Problem is that this information pretty much contradicted what the CR ratings said. Users weren't happy with them, they failed early, they had to be repaired. The one thing I kept coming across was that many of these people then purchased a Dyson and were in clean floor heaven.

It is no secret that I have long lusted after the Dyson Animal. Who wouldn't love a purple appliance? And the fact they call it the Animal, just for us pet lovers is another marketing super-move. I also love Mr. Dyson's smooth accent as he reassures me it will "Never loose suction." He's like a therapist and a sales person rolled into one camera ready package.

I took my questions to craigslist, asked in the PetFo and the NiceFo and got the same feedback. "You'll love it" I was reassured, even if I also was a little put off by the cultish nature of the enthusiasm for a vacuum cleaner.

Finally I took the plunge and ordered the bad boy. Two weeks later, it arrived on the doorstep as my neighbors admired from afar. "ooh, you got a Dyson!"

The first night I filled the canister 3 times in a recently vacuumed room. Each time I vacuum, I am amazed at just how much crap it pulls out of my seemingly clean rugs. I am addicted. It is like a game to see just how much filth exists in my home. Not only is the vacuum amazing, the details are well thought out. The handle has a long nozzle that detaches and becomes a too for picking up bits of debris from corners or under overhangs where the vacuum head won't fit.

I love this thing. Seriously, I LOVE this thing. And if you want to judge me for that, go on ahead. I don't need your approval, I have my fellow cult members to fall back on.

Too sensitive for the "net"

I tend to think of myself as a nice person. A person who gives good advice, who listens and sympathizes with others, who put herself out there for those in need. I even think I'm kind of funny. Ok, I know I'm hilarious, but that sounds so immodest. In general, I'm a likable person, so imagine my surprise when, for no good reason, every post of mine in the so-called NiceFo on craigslist starts getting a little -1 next to it. Well, maybe not no good reason. I mean, I did participate in a "secret forum" that sometimes talked a little trash, but really, how terrible is that.

For days I ignored the negs, but earlier this week, for unknown reasons (let's just chalk it up to stress) those negs started to get to me. I mean, I assume they are a result of the secret forum, but no one fesses up and tells me why, instead they stalk me with their little passive aggressive -1s. I finally snapped and decided to take a little break from 4231. Probably best for my sanity, but still, I feel a little like a quitter walking away like that.

Yesterday was my first 4231-free day. It was uneventful but dreadfully boring. I lingered in 39, offering snarky remarks in my grey state. I checked out the PetFo, but mostly just the photos. I even tried my other hang out but none of the bitches were posting, so I just lurked and read and fought the urge to post.

Today was easier. I was busy in meetings, but still, the lack of my buddies in the computer brought me down a bit. I did make a quick stop in the "secret forum" to review my posts to see how bitchy I was and only found one place where I made glib comments about someone that read a lot more vicious than I intended. I meant it lightly, and it read as though I really had ill will toward this person. But I had already contacted her right afterwards and told her what I meant when I posted, and she was ok with it. So who have I offended so greatly that they must cover my every post with red?

Today, at Target (my most relaxing place in the world) I thought about it and really, Fuck the negging bastard. She isn't woman enough to come out and say "Hey, you piss me off" or whatever, so why the hell should I care if they hate me. Really, if I said something that annoyed them enough to spend their spare time seeking out and negging my every post, that is something I can, in one perverse way or another, kind of be proud of, right? I mean, I'm not so dull that I go unnoticed! And really, if their life is so lonely and sad that negging me gives them a purpose and a sense of power, I owe it to them to continue to post. It is like.....community service or something. I have always felt sorry for the mentally ill, and I now understand that it is my responsibility to do my part to let them feel useful. I'm thinking I'm going to hold out until Monday and then head back.

I feel better already...now if I can just hold out until Monday...

And the award for biggest coward goes to...

ME! Yay me!

So here's the situation. For my birthday my fabulous husband made the offer of paying for a housekeeper for a year to help manage the terrible state of the house. Now on one level this is a self serving gift, but who the hell cares, I was getting a housekeeper!!!

Our first hire was a very nice lady who came once or twice then seemed to disappear. She was impossible to get ahold of and I guess didn't check phone messages and kind of assumed she'd been fired after rescheduling our cleaning one too many times. Fine, she was a bit flakey, but the house had looked great after he cleaning. I was sad to see her go, but frustrated enough to quit trying to track her down and hire someone else.

Our second hire was a cleaning service, from what I can tell the entire service is made up of a man and his wife. They are very nice, but she speaks very little English, and he can be a bit brusque. At first they did a great job, then I started noticing they were slacking off a bit. I moved a chair in the living room and was nearly robbed at knife-point by a dust bunny the size of a small wildebeast. The kitchen floor didn't appear to be swept under the overhang of the cabinets, and other small things started dropping off the "wow, that's clean" list.

These changes were bad enough, but then we started a nanny share at our house, and our nanny was home during the day. She actually interacts with the cleaners and has not been a happy camper. I guess they don't like to be asked to keep it down for a sleeping baby, and generally don't like to be disturbed while working.

So we've come to the point now that I want to find someone else, but my cowardly side rears it's pathetic head. I hate upsetting people, and I really hate firing people. I should really just suck it up and do it. For the price we pay for our weekly service they surely can't be living on our payment alone. They also show up in a HUGE brand spankin' new Mercedes, so they probably aren't hurting too bad. And still, I can't just call them up, ask them to return the key and give them their last paycheck. instead I sit here, wallowing in my cowardice in my moderately dirty house, completely dissatisfied with a service I am paying for on a weekly basis.

And for this, I award myself the "biggest coward award".

Maybe they ARE out to get me!

At times I become convinced that the boys are conspiring to do away with me. Sometimes it has to do with the special placement of toys, right in my path from the bedroom to the bathroom, just waiting to wreck my feet on my nightly trip to the toilet. Other times it is the quick maneuvering of a nearly 4 year old, right into my path as I struggle to carry a heavy object (or his baby brother) that sends me sprawling. And sometimes, more recently, it has been the attempt to scare the life out of me by performing death defying acts just out of my reach.

In the past week or so, the boys have created all kinds of new "games" involving jumping, climbing and pulling each other all over the place. The current favorite is climbing onto the arm of the couch, standing on the narrow platform with arms raised like a gymnast then flinging their small bodies down onto the cushions wildly rolling off the couch onto a pile of pillows on the floor. Each time they start, my heart skips a little and I nearly hold my breath until they stand up and shout "TA DA!". And this activity is endorsed by their loving father. He helps to spot them, while calling to me "Oh man, you have to see this!"

Another favorite is the wild leaping on the bed, tossing themselves from the foot of the bed to the mound of pillows at the head. I was unaware of this game until this weekend when my mother was sitting for me. Big Dog had her convinced that I knew all about it and even gave my approval! To my surprise, his father had signed off on this game! (secretly I think he may be in on the plotting of my demise, he knows how this type of activity rattles my delicate sensibilities) What his father didn't know was that Django had modified the game slightly to include a mid-air twist, an acrobatic summersalt that ended up leaving him with a banged up bum when he underestimated his velocity and smacked into the wall!

More troubling than the supervised antics of Big Dog, are the overestimations of skill by Little Dog. Now, I will give him some credit. He is very coordinated for his age, he has a strong sense of balance and the ability to brush off his falls, which is great since he apparently was born WITHOUT FEAR or even a sense of survival! He thinks he is a master of the stairs and insists on making many unaided trips up and down. When he slipped and fell a few steps, I thought he'd have a bit more caution, but instead he decided it was fun and spent the next 10 minutes trying to intentionally fall down a few more steps!

I'm sure at some point they will either do me in or toughen me up, but I fully expect that between the two of them, I will get to know the ER doctors very well in the next few years. Too bad they tend to look less like Dr. McDreamy and more like Dr. McI'mVerySleepy. Sigh.