Wedding bells are ringing.

So it looks like the boys have gotten married. Yep, they took the big step into wedded matrimony. Turns out somewhere in amongst the clutter, Big Dog and Little Dog came across some large nuts* (of the nuts and bolts variety, not of the tasty snack variety) they slipped on their fingers like rings. Since marriage essentially boils down to jewelry in their minds, it was a natural progression, right? When I came home from work, Big Dog announced that he was now married.
"Really?" I asked, "Who'd you marry?"
"Little Dog." he said matter-of-factly
Upon hearing his name, Little Dog held up his hand, proudly displaying his stunning bridal jewelry.
"I married!" he beamed.
"Yeah, I heard. You married Big dog."
"Yeah, I married Big Dog," he agreed, once again showing me his ring.
"Wow, that's huge news. You know, I'm pretty sure that's not legal."

*Special thanks to Mr. Dog for correcting my incorrect identification of construction objects. Not only did he inform me I had wrongly called a nut a bolt, he used a pornographic metaphor to drive the difference home. He is an endless source of knowledge and inappropriate references.

Moving on up

Today is big dog's last day at his old school. When I told him this morning he was almost giddy, "And after this I always go to my new school?" he asked wild with anticipation.
"Yes, you do." I replied, a little surprised at just how much he seems to be ready to ditch his old school and old school buddies. Then I started to feel a little sad. Why? Who the hell knows? I wasn't crazy about his old school and I adore the new program he's in now. I was the one who made the decision to move him, I smooth talked Mr. Dog into getting on board with it. I set up the overlapping transition time, but now that the transition is ending it feels like it went way too fast.

I keep thinking about how hard it will be to keep in touch with his friends from his old school, how those early friendships may well be ending when we complete the transition. Does it matter? Not really. It isn't like I have a whole gang of buddies from my preschool. He's already swimming in friends at his new school who he talks about non-stop. And his best friend, well we'll see him no matter where he goes to school. His mom is one of my friends, so that makes it really easy. And the others, most of them were heading off to Kindergarten this Fall, so if they do lose touch it would have happened after they made their transitions.

Still, I'm making a special point of picking him up this evening. I'm bringing cupcakes over at lunch for as a friendly gesture of goodbye, not the one fingered salute I would have expected when I made the plans for our escape. And here I am feeling a little weepy about this "end of an era".

What the hell is wrong with me? Maybe it's rooted in the fact that he's been here since he was 18 months and by keeping him here, I have some kind of odd connection to his past. Or maybe that's just some kind of psychobabble stretch to make sense out of my odd behavior.

Dinner and a show

Apparently I'm raising a couple of budding comics. At dinner the other night, we were treated to a dry run of their new routine, much to the amusement of our dinner guests. I'm sure Rick and Nicole will attest to the overall hilarity of the act. Me, I'm still trying to figure out the finer points of their humor.

Big Dog: How did the monster get on the roof?
Me: I don't know, how?
BD: With their fingers! (pause) Is that funny?
Me: Uh, sure. More odd than funny, but sure, we'll say funny.
Bolstered by the success of his first joke he tries another.
BD: Why did the book cross the road?
Me: No idea.
BD:--it wanted to go to the movies!
He promptly dissolves into laughter.
Me: Uh, ok. I'm not sure I get that one.
BD: the movies!
I still don't get it, so he pitches another one.
BD: Why did the door cross the road
Me: Don't know. Why?
BD: it wanted to go to the movies!
While I'm working this one out, Little Dog decides he needs to get in on the act.
Little Dog: How did the ghost get in here? (brief pause) The Closet! (insane toddler laughter)
Mr. Dog: Big Dog, why don't you tell Nicole your knock knock joke.
BD: OK! (eyes gleaming with excitement!) Knock knock
Nicole: Who's there?
BD: Banana
Nicole: Banana who?
BD: Knock knock
Nicole: Who's there?
BD: Banana
Nicole: Banana who?
BD: Knock knock
Nicole: Who's there?
BD: Orange
Nicole: Orange Who?
BD: Orange you glad I didn't say banana?
Me: Here let me teach you one. Knock knock.
BD: Who's there
Me: Boo
BD: Boo Who
Me: Aw, don't cry!
(much laughter)
Big Dog turns to Nicole: Knock knock
Nicole: Who's there?
BD: Boo
(as if we don't immediately see where this is going) Nicole: Boo Who?
BD: Aw, don't cry.
(more laughter)
BD again to Nicole: Knock knock
Nicole: Who's there
BD: Boo
Nicole: Boo Who?
BD: Aw, come on, don't cry
Nicole: nice, he's improvising.
BD, again to Nicole: Knock knock
Nicole: Who's there?
Little Dog, interrupting: How did the ghost get in here?...the closet!
Nicole to Big Dog: Let me teach you one. Knock knock
BD: Who's there?
Nicole: Who
BD: Banana
Nicole: No, you say who?
BD: Banana who?
Nicole: No, I say "Who" you say "Who who?"
BD: Who's there?
Nicole: Who
BD: No, I said that.
Nicole: you say "who who"
BD: Who who who?
Nicole: There's an owl in here
BD: (looking puzzled) Who?
Mr. Dog, trying to get in on the joke telling action: Knock knock
BD: Who's there
Mr. Dog: Boo Who
Little Dog: Don't cry
Mr. Dog: No, you say Boo Who who?
BD: Boo Who who?
Mr. Dog: Oooh a ghost owl!
Little Dog, perking up at the mention of ghosts: How did the ghost get in here?....the closet!
(insane toddler laughter)
Big Dog: Knock knock
Nicole: Who's there?
BD: Boo
Nicole: Boo who?
BD: Don't cry!
Little Dog decides he has taken the wrong joke telling approach for this audience, and tries again.
LD: Knock knock
Me: Who's there?
LD: Banana
Me: Banana who?
LD: Orange
Me: Orange who?
LD: Milk
Me: Ok, you don't get this joke do you?
LD: Water
And so went my evening. Fortunately there was an ample supply of wine.

Heartbreak

I think I've written this post before, but as time goes on,and I expect it to get easier, I am constantly suprised by how easily I am still moved to tears. In November 2007, I had to say goodbye to my buddy, my dog Mao. He was a sweet if not slighly skittish shar pei who joined my family right after Mr. Dog and I moved in together.

The first night we had him, he was barely ankle high, his soft puppy fur felt like the silkiest chenille, I instantly fell in love. His whole tiny body was covered in wrinkles and could easily fit on my lap yet, when he fell asleep, he'd snore like an old man. Really,snorts and sighs loud enough to wake me from a good night sleep, and Mr. Dog can attest to the fact I do not wake easily.

He grew into a regal looking dog, 65lbs of wrinkled beauty. I've never seen a more handsome shar pei,and don't expect I ever will. Even more, he had a loving temperment, quite gentle and goofy, not a tough guy in the least. Our first vet, who had other shar pei patients constantly comment on his friendly nature. Our teachers in obedience classes were amazed how different he was from othe shar pei who had been in and out of classes, he thrived on praise and love, he loved attention.

Every day when I came home from work, Mao would greet me at the door with a goofy jumpy dance, toy in mouth, his magestic body twisting and squirming with the sheer joy that I actually returned. Like I did every day. And yet, every day he greeted me as though I had been lost forever and now, through some turn of events had found my way home. His pure display of love was a surefire antidote to any bad day.

He wasn't a snuggly guy, he didn't want to be held, he didn't want to be on your lap, just nearby. And if you left the room, he'd follow and find a new place to nap wherever you went.
Mao was there when Mr. Dog proposed, he was at the wedding to greet us after we had exchanged vows, and when we brought home Big Dog, he greeted me at the door with his frantic zaney dance of joy. And when we brought Little Dog home a few years later, I could almost see him say "here we go again".

He was never crazy about the boys, they were a bit unpredictable for his liking. He tended to steer clear, expecially once they started walking. I think their odd movement and loud persistant noises were mostly to blame. It wasn't that he didn't like them, more like he didn't know what the hell to make of them. When the boys were tiny and used to squeal their infant demands, Mao would run between them and me, yipping at me to "hurry the hell up and quiet that thing down!" And when I'd sit down to nurse, he'd curl up at my feet.
In November, after watching his slow decline from kidney failure, we said goodbye. And my heart broke. Today, eight and a half months later, I cry when I think of him. I miss him with all my heart. My very broken heart.

Oh the starving Salvadorans.

What happens when you ask your husband to go get some take out from the local El Salvadoran restaurant? Well, if he's hungy you end up with much more than you bargained for. Granted, I usually order when we get papusas, and granted we had extra dinner guests, only two, but yes, that is more than normal. And we ended up with this:
Yes, there is more on the sideboard. Yes, this is a full-size dining table. How big was the crowd we were trying to feed? 4 Adults, 2 children. Overkill? Definately. The restaurant staff helped him carry it all out to his car. He blames his over-order on a language barrior.

It's all about meme.

Mamikaze from Life on the Run tagged me for a Meme. Since I try to do as I'm told (I see you laughing Mr. Dog), I'm playing along.

Six Random things about Followthatdog:

1. I am obsessed with number patterns. I see them in everything. My dog Mao had a 7/7 birthday, Mr. Dog is 11/11, Big Dog is 10/10. Little Dog's due date was 2/2 but being a stubborn kind of guy he waited until 2/9 (I kind of hoped for 2/4, because he would have been 2/4/06). I was annoyed at first since it broke the double numbers pattern, but realized the human men in our family have birthdays on the 9th, 10th and 11th.

2. I hate Valentine's day, but I love the day after sales on leftover chocolate.

3. I spent a hellish year of my life living in San Jose, CA after Big Dog was born. I try to forget that I made that move at all. My phone number while living in SJ was (408)BUTTHLE, yep, (408) butthole. I did not ask for that number but pretty much agreed with it.

4. I hate peas, really really hate them, but I love split pea soup.

5. I used to tell my husband that I loved him more than "Zombies love human flesh" and inside his wedding band, along with our wedding date, I had engraved "more than zombies"

6. I collect cocktail shakers and cocktail related objects. Currently (and for the past 4 years) my collection has been in boxes in storage.

THE RULES:
Link to the person who tagged you.
Post the rules on your blog.
Write six random things about yourself.
Tag six random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
Let each person know they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
Let your tagger know when your blog entry is up.

I'm tagging:

Kaza
Taste Like Crazy
Shannon Renee
Erin
PalomaFred
BlogginMama

Badge of Dishonor

Last night after searching the living room, guest room, play room and guest bathroom for the missing Tivo remote I collapsed into a comfortable chair to pout. Maybe I didn’t handle the loss of my most beloved tool well. I may have let loose with a bit of salty language. I may have had a bit of a woe is me tantrum while emptying the overfull trashcan in the playroom (why I did that while searching for the remote remains a mystery) And yes, I may have asked the children to pick up their toys. Fine, I may have made that last request in a slightly high pitched and whiney seriously-where-is-the-damn-remote-Project-Runway-is-just-waiting-to-be-
watched-and-I-can’t-really-be-expected-to-watch-commercials-can-I? voice. I mean sure, I was pushing the edge, but let you remind you the gravity of my situation…the Tivo remote was missing!

So when Big Dog comes over to stick a sticker on my chest, and says “That’s for being a bad mommy” I have to admit I was a little stunned.
“Bad mommy? What? I think I’m a pretty good mommy!”
He looked me over, went back to his sticker book and added a second sticker to my shirt.
“This means you can apply to be a good mommy.”
“Apply? I have to apply?” I ask, stunned by this news.
“You have to not say bad things and make breakfast every time when it is breakfast time”
“Great. Just great.”
When I look over Mr. Dog is trying, but not doing such a great job, to conceal his huge freakin’ grin and chuckles. When I glare, he pleads “But it is kind of funny.”
Fine, it is funny. But I still don’t have my damn remote.

The most annoying thing...

You want to know what the most annoying thing is the world is?

It's more annoying than those subscription inserts in all of my magazines.
It's more annoying than my kids handing me every scrap of trash and half eaten food rather than put it in the trash can.
It's more annoying than Death Cab For Cutie's "I Will Posses Your Heart" (yeah, I'm stuck on that one right now, but it really, really sucks)
It's more annoying than Planned Parenthood's 40 zillion different offshoots all calling me for donations within a month of each other. (yes, I donated, I will donate again, just not right this very second.)
It's more annoying than Twitter's growing pains.
It's more annoying than being addicted to comments on your blog, but no one leaves them. (hint, hint)
It's more annoying than people who park their shopping carts smack dab in the middle of the aisle at the supermarket.
It's more annoying that Max and Ruby.
It's more annoying than the extremely slow progress on the new sidewalk on along the side of my house that means ongoing loud noises and traffic issues.
It's more annoying than Tyra Banks on America's Next Top Model (yes, really and still I watch)
It's more annoying than the insane over use of the term "Diva". (this may just be annoying to me, but I'm listing it)
It's more annoying than being unable to use the bathroom solo for the past, let's say 5 years.
It's more annoying than my toddler's constant need to strip off his diaper.
It's more annoying than my Great Dane's passion for shredding discarded diapers.
It's more annoying than being required to have a million passwords for all of my online activities and not being able to keep them straight.

Want to know what it is?
Losing the fucking Tivo remote.

Going Dutch

When I was 17 I spent a year in the Netherlands as an exchange student. I'd graduated from high school a year early and instead of going right to college, decided to take a year abroad. My sister had lived in Belgium when she was in high school, and it had been an amazing experience for her. My frightfully shy older sister went away quiet and introverted and came back with a whole new perspective on life.

My year away had a similar effect on me, but in a different way. Before my time in the Netherlands, I was not shy, but I was very self critical. I would ham it up with people I knew well, but I had a hard time making friends that stuck and hated to leave my comfort zone. My own insecurity left me open to other kids with bully tendencies. I was an easy target when I was younger, and when I got a little older, I put up such a stone wall of defensiveness it was amazing that ANYONE ever got past it. I acted tough and had a quick smart mouth (ok, that part hasn't changed much) Being away from my family, my support network, terrified me. I was the kid that got homesick at summer camp and had to be picked up in the middle of the night. When I was in 6th grade, rather than spend a week at Outdoors School which I imagined would be much like Lord of the Flies, I had my parents excuse me from participating. And yet, at the age of 17, I packed my suitcases and moved in with a family of strangers.

It wasn't all sunshine and light. I moved host families twice before finding one that meshed. I had to make friends, ask for help, learn a whole new culture and a strange language. I did have bouts of homesickness and made social missteps. But at the end of the year, I returned to the US with a new confidence and appreciation for just how adaptable I could be. It was like a light had been turned on for me, and I finally saw a part of me that had been previously hidden.

This morning as I rode my bike to work, I had one of those moments that transports you to a different time and place. Today was less warm and more overcast that the past few weeks have been. There was a familiar bit of dampness in the air, and when I made the turn that takes me down the last segment of road, it dawned on me, that I work right next to a canal. Odd that I never connected that to the canals in the Netherlands before, but today it just shone in front of me. For a few brief moments, I was back in Zwolle. I was 17 and out on my own. I was young and life was easy. And even though I quickly came back to reality, something about reverting to that optimistic, transformative, world-is-my-oyster place, for even just a second, has clung to the rest of my day.

Retrograde

No matter how grown up I become, no matter how hard I work to be a professional, a mother and a fully self directed woman, I still have days that I feel like Molly Ringwald in 16 Candles. No, not the end with the sexy guy with the hot car and the birthday cake. More like the "I can't believe I gave my panties to a geek". Yeah. Today is one of those days.

clarification: This has nothing to do with my husband, he is not a geek. And no, I have not given my undergarments to anyone. I am using this as a metaphor.

Of Super Heros, Kids, Dogs and Bandaids.

If we lived in some ancient civilization you might think it was natural that from time to time our children's toys are sacrificed to a large furry beast. You might even consider it a rite of passage to lose a favorite toy occasionally because it was not put out of dog's reach. I could even try to spin it that way now. But I won't, cause that would just be dumb. Since we live in modern times, and share our home with two large chew-crazy dogs, we've had to resign ourselves to the fact our children will have to become comfortable with loss at an early age. Dogs have a hard time differentiating between toys that belong to dogs and toys that belong to children. Most of the time they are pretty good about it, but there are occasional failures in their doggy logic.

Last night, Dashiell, our great Dane puppy, decided to decapitate and generally maim a Spiderman action figure. Although Spiderman was a gift to Big Dog at his last birthday, he has never shown much interest in him. Little dog, on the other hand, has been obsessed with the crime-fighter.

Big Dog discovered the destruction and felt he must pass the news to his little brother,
"Little Dog, I'm so sorry, but Dash has eaten your Spiderman. I'm really really sorry" he said in his best somber big brother voice. Little Dog listened, but didn't really react much.

Later, Little Dog was crouched over something talking softly. When Mr. Dog investigated he saw Little Dog with his now headless action figure saying, "Spiderman, this band aid will make you feel better. Don't worry" while trying to reattach the head with, get this, a Spiderman bandaid.

Oh the shame of it all.

As much as we like to encourage our children to tell the truth, I think most parents are liars. Bad liars at that. Maybe we don't go so far as to fabricate facts, but I know most of us lie by omission in most social situations when it comes to our own parenting skills and practices. How do I know this? Well, informal research mostly. Ok, no research, just a gut feeling, but I'm a mom, so that has to count for something, right?

I don't think we lie to be malicious. It isn't that kind of thing, it is more of a fear thing. We don't want to be singled out as a bad parent. We fear being exposed as that parent. I think this is especially strong amongst working moms. There is already so much pressure out there to be a good, even tempered, hands on mom and we are frequently told that by having jobs, by having our children in childcare or with a nanny, we have officially handed off our child raising responsibilities. So it is easy to see why we feel defensive when the "experts" tell us we're doing it all wrong.

But really, we're all amatures at this, right? I mean, does anyone parent professionally? And in our time of amazing resources, most of us at one time or another has turned to a self-proclaimed expert to help guide us. There are tons of them out there, sleep experts, discipline experts, feeding experts and many more that I can't even begin to imagine. Part of this is great and part of it is the problem. It is fantastic to be able to research your problem and find answers, but it sucks when the "experts" make it sound like it should be easy, or quote statistics that clearly put your child's behavior in the very small minority. It is a small insecure step from there to feeling like you are the worst, most inept parent on the planet.

Take for example, my boys. They don't sleep. They never have. Ok, that's an exaggeration, they do sleep, they just don't sleep like I was led to believe they should. They go to bed late, and they don't do it willingly. It took years for them to sleep through the night, and even now, we deal with my 2.5 year old waking up on a semi-regular basis. At one point our pediatrician asked about their sleep patterns. We discussed their late to bed pattern and he sighed sympathetically. He asked how they functioned during the day. Did they zonk out in the car? Were they extra grouchy? Did they nod off between naps and nighttime? No, they are very active, generally happy kids. His verdict? He said they sounded like they were getting enough sleep. He reminded us that the "average" hours of sleep any child should get is just that, and average. While we may fixate on some number we're falling short of, some kids need much more, some much less. Unfortunately ours were in the second group, and as much as it means we have very little grown up time alone, it isn't harming the kids to sleep less.

Our pediatrician was sympathetic, but unworried. He reminded us that we were both night owls. He asked us about our sleep habits. Yes, most of my adult life I went to bed late and woke up early enough for work. I was a night owl, in no way a morning person, and this is clearly mirrored in my two offspring. And still I rarely admit how little my boys sleep.

When I do, even to close friends, I have to be prepared for their helpful advice. I've been told more times than I care to list that if I just put them to bed earlier they'll sleep on through the night. Um, I've tried this. If I can get them to sleep earlier, they wake up earlier. Hours earlier. Remember that "I'm not a morning person" thing I said earlier? Yeah. I've been told they nap too long if they're up that late. Guess what, their naps seem to have no bearing on their bedtime. Either they nap and go to bed late or they don't nap and go to bed late. I'd prefer they nap, call me crazy.

The thing is, once I do confide in someone, if they don't have a good sleeper, they spill and feel utterly relieved to find someone equally sleep deprived. It turns out there are TONS of us fighting the sleep battle and losing. More of my friends seem to have sleep struggles than the "experts" would like to have us know. And guess what, our kids are happy, healthy and growing just fine. Still rather than have to defend our choices or our situation, rather than being forced to detail what we've tried and how it failed, when it comes to the bedtime struggle, many of us just opt out of those conversations. I mean, when I hear people say their child's bedtime routine gets the tot off to dreamland by 7:30pm and keeps them out like a light all night long, you might as well tell me they are raising an alien. It is so far from my experience, I just sit quietly by and listen in a state of shock. And so do many of the other no-sleep mommies I know.

On the flip side, when something is going right with our kids, we jump on the chance to take credit for it. For example, my kids are good eaters. I don't mean they have good appetites, they do, but it goes beyond that. My kids eat a variety of foods. Little dog has an odd obsession with Brussels sprouts, Big dog sneaks tomatoes as snacks and thinks he is getting away with something. They both willingly eat a wide variety of foods and will try almost anything. I don't chalk this up to my superior parenting skills, though you may feel free to commend me on this. I don't think this is because I have some precise formula of food introduction and amazing mommy skills. And although I think I am a good cook, I don't think my culinary chops are so mind-alteringly superior that I create special magic in the kitchen that toddlers cannot resist. I think I'm really freakin' lucky. But I still brag. And when I do, some of my friends with perfect sleepers get really quiet.

I guess my point is that every kid is a bit of a mixed bag. We get some parts of their personalities that work the way we want, the way we expect and don't upset the "experts". And then we get the other parts. The parts we struggle with, the ones that defy explanation and present problems that aren't so easily solved. But we love them, and those complexities are a part of the whole kid. So why can't we just accept that at times, no matter how fantastic we are as parents, our kids are not going eat what we'd like them to eat, or sleep when we'd like them to sleep? At what point are we going to stop thinking in terms of cookie cutter kids? I certainly don't want one of those, in fact, I strive to have kids with strong self direction.
Maybe I just feel too judged as a parent, too prepared to be defensive, too driven to be that "perfect" mom I'm told I should be. Maybe I secretly think I am doing it wrong and that someone will discover how inept and unprepared I am as a parent and expose me as a fraud.

Well, I'm going to start pushing for full disclosure. I've aired my dirty laundry. What are you lying about?

You know you want to subscribe.

Really, I know you do. Go on then. Go ahead and do it. All of the cool kids are doing it.

Glass half full, half empty or just really dirty?

Looking at the recent near severing and reattaching of Mr. Dog's finger tip, noting the ups and downs. Thought I might make it into a blog post. Humor me.

Upside: He won't have house projects to work on this weekend, so we can have some more quality family time.
Downside: Quality family time is kind of what led to the finger tip incident, more or less. What's next to be severed?

Upside: In his spare time, he is loading and loading the dishwasher, this can be done with his impaired hand.
Downside: Since his dexterity is down, I get to perform all diaper changes.

Upside: Oxycontin prescription in the house. Um, not that I do that kind of thing ya know.
Downside: Now have a fear of uninvited Rush Limbaugh visits.

Upside: We're spending a bit more time together since he isn't out in the yard, or under the house.
Downside: He now supervises me as I perform manual labor, like cleaning up after the dogs' recent attack on a big bag of compost, and makes "helpful" suggestions.

Upside: Big bandage on his finger makes it look like he's continually flipping the bird. And I find that kind of thing extremely amusing.
Downside: Really, is there a downside to this one?

Great summer trip....to the ER

Since Mr. Dog spends so many weekends working on our third world hovel house, it is always a treat when we have some project free weekend time to do all that normal family stuff. This was one of those weekends, and we'd been enjoying it. Saturday we spent hours at the park, went out to lunch and then lounged around the house. No trip to Tahiti, but a great summer day in the sun. Sunday, although we had some afternoon projects planned, we decided start the day with a family walk in the neighborhood. Get the kids and dogs out for a bit of exercise, then hit the local toy store on the way home.

We'd fed the kids, an I just needed to finish pulling myself together, so Mr.Dog deciding to take advantage of the downtime said "I'm going to do a little work outside while you eat and get dressed, then we can go." Sure, since I wasn't ready, why not use that time to make some progress? I'll tell you why, within minutes Mr. Dog reappeared gripping his bloody mangled finger. "You need to take me to the ER."
Yes, every great weekend walk starts with a trip to the ER, right? Turns out in trying to save time putting the yard waste bin out to gather up the lilac branches he'd piled in the driveway, Mr.Dog decided to put it over the fence, instead of opening our broken gate because it would be easier. Well, easier, if by easier you mean more likely to crush your finger and rip the tip off. So we packed the boys in the car, got to the hospital, got checked in and settled in. It didn't take long for the ER staff to bring crayons and coloring books for the boys, a very kind gesture on their part. However within minutes my stress level was going through the roof. I realized having both boys in the hospital rolling crayons all over the slick ER floor was only going to lead to further injury, and there was nothing to distract me from the gore of my husband's injury. As you may know Dr. Doug Ross and Dr. Luka Kovac only exist on TV, so I ushered the little troublemakers out of the hospital and over to a local coffee house with a children's play area. Mr. Dog was to call me when he could go home. Hours passed, the boys, full of chocolate milk and cookies grew bored of the play area. We packed up again and headed off to run any errand I could think of that might kill time. Bandages. We'd need bandages right?

While we were heading over to the store to stock up, Mr. Dog called, they were stitching the top of his finger back on, he had managed to break the bone in the very tip of his finger as an extra bonus, but he should be able to go soon. Unfortunately, "soon" means different things to different people. We thought 15-20 minutes, in ER speak, it means more like another hour. Most of the delay was because Mr. Dog has a penicillin allergy, so after injecting him with antibiotics they wanted him to stick around and see if he would survive the treatment. Since he was in the waiting room, we thought we'd join him, but again, little boys and hospitals don't mix. My two little monkeys decided that the waiting room chairs made great climbers and I feared further injuries, so back out to the car we went. Finally Mr Dog was cleared to go home.
Our walk, needless to say, never happened.

How many men does it take to watch a toddler?

Two grown men should be fully capable of watching two little boys for less than a half hour, right? I thought so. So when I came into the near silent room to find one full-grown adult man watching the news and the other full-grown adult man in charge of two small boys surfing the web, I thought things were under control. I saw one boy crashed out sleeping and but sign of my little one. I glanced around and asked "Where's Little Dog?"
"In there, " my father said, pointing toward the guest bedroom.
"Aw, is he sleeping too?" I asked, already envisioning my sleeping angel curled up on the guest bed.
"No, he's playing," he replied.
Keep in mind it was quiet. Very quiet. No sounds of a two-year-old playing. And as those of us with small children know, that always means trouble.
Inwardly groaning with anticipation of just what my tiny troublemaker had started, I went to the guest room and found him creating a new piece of art....all over himself. Little Dog had discovered my makeup bag, the make up bag I keep on a shelf. A shelf I thought was out of reach of little hands. So he was playing, but playing with my cosmetics.
"But he was so quiet," protests my father.
"And that should have been the first sign of trouble!"

Shocked! Stunned! Flabbergasted!

and all those other things that you feel when your expectation based on ample personal experience is not met. For example, when you decide to change your child from one school to a new school. Especially when you took this child to the school tour and he spent the entire tour crying and begging to leave. Yeah, exactly like that.

So imagine my surprise when I took Big Dog to his new school this morning and he was, get this, excited. Yeah, happy, excited and well, really looking forward to it. So I kept telling myself that he might start to worry once we got inside. No. Maybe he'd stress out when he had to meet the new teacher. No. Ok, he's all settled at the train table, maybe it's going to be a problems when I tell him it's time for me to go to work. No. No problems at all.

Guess I can start breathing again. No trauma, no stress and no tears! Ok, maybe there were a few tears, but those were mine.