A Very Belated Birthday Post

My precious seven-year-old Little Dog,
I usually post these right around the time you age up, but this year, as you well know, has been a bit of an ass-kicker.  I'm running behind because this year I never seem to stop running.

I am sick of saying that I can't believe you are a year older already, but honestly I can't.  When you were decorating the Christmas tree in December I remember being struck by how tall you were and each day I watch your beautiful face continue on its transformation from adorable chubby baby face to handsome big kid. Only when you are asleep do you still resemble the infant I brought home seven years ago, and it is all I can to to see that sleeping face and not lean over to immediately kiss your cheek.

We've had our share of challenges this year as your worries continue to hijack that sweet kid spirit at times when you feel stressed or overwhelmed, but we keep working our way down the path to finding a lasting solution.  It hasn't been easy for you, or for us, but I sincerely believe that this year will end on a much happier, calmer note than it began.  Just hold my hand and keep moving forward with me, sweetie.

And even with the challenges you continue to grow and amaze.  Your vocabulary continues to flourish, you seem to collect words the way Big Dog collects Bey Blades or Pokemon cards.  You cherish them, polish them and use them expertly.  It is a love I recognize in myself as well as in your grandma and I couldn't be more proud. 

While you are loathe to show it, you can read and do math, but you'd rather not.  Your love is video games.  Skylanders to be precise.  I think you love the possibility of the characters as much as the game, but you do immerse yourself in that world. 

You have an great sense of humor that constantly catches me off guard.  You turn phrases in ways that make me giggle and frequently post your observations or retorts in my Facebook status.  In fact, you have gained quite a reputation in my social circle as a smart and funny guy with a sharp wit and a keen eye.  My pride in you shines through as I write or talk about you every day.

Through the year we are going try to work through some problems for you, and I imagine at times it will be tough for all of us.  We may cry, we may argue, we may wallow in our frustration, but at the heart of it all please know I love you more than you could ever imagine.  As we grow together I promise I will try to offset the aggravation with joy, balance the struggle with fun and naturally fill in the bumps with chocolate.

I love you, Little Dog. You are your own original creation.

Off the list

When I lived in San Francisco we used to throw parties.  Especially holiday parties.  Both Stan and I did a stint in retail, so we always had great holiday clothes, and with Stan's brief turn in the corporate offices at Williams Sonoma, we had great tableware too.  I mean, how many people in their mid 20s have 36 matched buffet plates?  Well we did.  I'd cook all day and have a huge array of finger foods, stock the bar and we'd "entertain."  It was awesome. We both loved playing host, dressing up our house and spending time with people we cared about...or at least people who wanted to drink, eat and hang out.
Eventually I moved in with Mr. Dog and we hosted parties too. Even some at Stan's house.  Holiday dinners, birthday parties, dinners for our SF family.  Lots of social events, lots of celebrations.  Our apartment was frequently filled with our friends, music, drinks and food.
A lot has changed.  We've moved to Seattle, our house isn't so celebration friendly seeing how it is still a hodge podge of different DIY projects. I mean sure, we have had people over for dinner and host playdates, but a real party is out of the question.
In fact, we don't even go to parties much anymore.  Maybe that's normal for parents of small kids or people our age, but still.  I miss it.
The other missing element is Stan.  He was always my co-host.  See, Mr. Dave is great at parties, but he's less concerned about mastering the art of the perfect party than enjoying the celebratory environment (and a cocktail or two) created by two detail obsessed party planners hell bent on making a memorable event.
I hear there is a little party going on in SF this weekend.  One that I only heard about by chance. I can't help but think back to a time when I'd be there helping mix the drinks, and that this year I didn't even rate in invite.

Pockets

When I was in my early 20s I'd stick my hand in my pocket to find a collection of Muni transfers, change and Altoids. I was single, lived and worked in the city and spent my spare time (and money) out with my friend in bars or restaurants. The friends I made at this time in my life are like my extended family to this day.

When I was in my late 20s my pockets were filled with plastic baggies and dog treats. The Muni transfers were traded for car keys, the change was replaced with some small bills. Mr. Dog and I had moved in together and got a dog, then another. I'd started working in San Jose and had a hellish daily commute, but we were happy living in the Mission. Crazy in love, I'd found my partner and together we began our life together surrounded with our dogs

When I was in my early 30s I had pockets filled with pacifiers, baggies of wipes and plastic keys. Soon these were replaced with cheerios and a Mustella hydra-stick for soothing chapped cheeks. I was a new mom. I was frequently sleep deprived and a little bit worn, utterly besotted with my babies. The center of my world expanded to include these new people and they worked hard to break me in as a mother.

In my mid 30s my pockets again became my own. They are cluttered with receipts, a few dollars and a lipstick or two. My keys, wallet and cellphone frequently round out the cargo since I don't always carry a purse. My boys are bigger, they are more self contained. If they need to bring something with us, they can usually carry it. My pockets now carry the trappings of a working woman, the few things grabbed as I leave the house mixed with the remains of the previous day's activities. We are constantly in motion, buzzing with activity at all times. I know this is just the beginning as we rush from work to school to playdate to activity. And I wouldn't change it for the world. (Though I might occasionally slacken the pace...)

Occasionally, I stick my hand in my pocket and find a small car or a special rock gathered for a small boy's "rock collection." Though I am a mom of bigger boys, I am still a mom. I cannot go too far without a reminder from the boys.

What do you have in your coat pocket?

The Way Back Machine

Back when I was pregnant with Little Dog, Big Dog was little more than a toddler. This is one of my favorite Big Dog stories from that time.

In my memory of the toddler years, Big Dog has these adorable chubby thighs and a bubble butt that needs to be patted. And I did pat it frequently. He'd always giggle as I said "pat, pat, pat" and pat-pat-patted his little bum. Fresh from the bath, while getting dressed, even if he was just roaming around in the buff as he often did back then, I couldn't help myself, and the giggle that it evoked was contagious. How could I stop? It was a thing in our house, our new house in our new city.

We'd just recently moved to Seattle and were still trying to find our way around. After becoming pregnant, I'd started looking for a doula to help me during labor since our previous experience had been so positive. My OB recommended a local doula group and, as a family, we went to an open house to check them out. Since he was not quite two at the time, Big Dog's attention easily wandered and Mr. Dog took him outside to walk up and down the sidewalk this warm summer evening while I talked more to the women who might end up assisting us in our labor.

As they walked, a trio of young women came by taking a walk enjoying the warm weather. And as they do in warm weather, these young women were very, um, lightly dressed. One of the young girls was dressed in a very short skirt as teenage girls sometimes do, because they can. They stopped for a moment when they came to where Mr. Dog was letting Big Dog roam. They cooed over the adorable blond toddler with the chubby cheeks and sparking blue eyes before they started to walk by. As they left Big Dog reached up and pat-pat-patted the short-skirted girl's bottom, saying "Pat, pat, pat," just like mommy as he did.

Luckily she had a sense of humor about my toddler's freshness.

O the memories (Trader Joe's Os that is)

This morning the boys had their breakfast of Trader Joe's Os at the dining table with their dad. As they munched away I had one of those flashback kind of memories from when Big Dog was a toddler. Back before Little Dog was born, back before we moved to Seattle, back before we were old hands at this parenting thing.

When Big Dog was just over a year old he was a pretty good eater. One thing he especially liked was a nice bowl of Os. But not just any Os. His father's Os. As soon as Mr. Dog would pour himself a bowl, Big Dog would drop whatever he was doing and speed waddle off to the kitchen to grab himself a spoon. Then he'd climb up on Mr. Dog's lap and help him eat his snack. The thought of it still makes me smile.

Now this diapered baby of my memories is a tall and strong boy. He doesn't waddle when he runs. He doesn't need help finding a spoon in the drawer. He sits in his own chair and confidently feed himself. And yet, even nearly 5 years later, he will still swipe your snack in a heartbeat. As much as things change, some thing stay the same.

Faulty memory

I graduated from Tigard High School in 1989. Or at least I used to be pretty sure I did. When I look on Facebook at the people who I supposedly went to school with, I kind of doubt my memory. I don't recognize many of them. Not just the photos, the names are completely unfamiliar. Why am I bringing this up now? Well, two weeks ago, the class of 1989 had our 20 year reunion. No, I didn't attend. I don't look back at high school with fond memories, but I thought I had some memory of it. Turns out I was wrong.

Not just about my graduating class, but even about myself in that class. I thought I was more or less unnoticed. I was not part of the "in" crowd. I hung out with a smaller group of skateboarders who thought we badass and misunderstood. At least I did until my senior year when many of them graduated or dropped out and all of a sudden I was pushed back into broader social circle. I felt like I survived high school, escaping with as little damage as possible leaving no trace behind when I left. Then I started to connect with a few classmates on Facebook. One of them said she thought I was the coolest kid in our class. Really? I felt awkward and antisocial. Another said he thought I was a trendsetter. Weird.

So what does this mean? Did I somehow lose my memory of the 80s completely? Or maybe my brain is just doing some cleaning of the mess. More and more people are posting old photos of themselves and their friends from that era. It was an ugly ugly time. What was with our hair? Really? What? And the clothes? If they weren't pegged jeans, stirrup pants or 501s that were way too tight everything else seemed to be way too big. Maybe we were trying to keep some kind of proportion to our hair? I really don't know. My husband assures me that 20 years from now I'll look back and think "What the hell?" about my current styles, but somehow it seems less likely. I think there is a special kind of overkill unique to teenagers. Maybe the teens of today will encounter a similar shock, but I somehow doubt I'll be as traumatized. I'm just not that extreme anymore.

I guess it goes without saying that what was cool then is unlikely to be cool now, but as I gaze at photos of a friend's band from the 80s with Flock of Seagulls hair, short shorts and shirts left untucked but buttoned all the way up, I'm stunned by how off the mark we all were. And no, I will not be posting a high school photo to demonstrate. You'll have to leave it to your imagination. Just think platinum blonde, lots and lots of eye liner. Throw in a Joy Division t-shirt and a thrift store jacket and you probably just about have it.

Bye bye, Michael

When we were little, living in Albuquerque, New Mexico, we used to take dance lessons at a dance studio on 4th Street. I think it was called Starlet Dance Studio, but I'm not sure, the name may have just morphed into that over time. Anyhow, the name of the studio was not the point, it was the dancing. Several nights a week, Kathleen and I used to take lessons. Jazz, Tap, Baton and Acrobatics. We danced up a storm in that little studio to lots of music from the late 70s and early 80s. I remember our Acrobatics recital piece was set to The Village People's "In the Navy" and I especially remember our daily jazz warm ups were always started to George Benson's "On Broadway," and finished to Michael Jackson's "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough." Even now, hearing that song makes me want to step-ball-change diagonally across the room. In pairs. With "big arms."

A few years later, I remember watching hours of MTV. I remember the premiere of Thriller and waiting to see it again and again. That was the year I got my first filling. See, my enamel on my back teeth never fully closed and in the deep grooves of my teeth I got a cavity. Our family, or at least the women in my family are pretty proud of our teeth. And that year, I was mortified that I had to get a filling. Mortified and terrified. My perfect-toothed sister liked to tease me. She'd run around after me saying "drill drill drill" until I lost it. My mom caught her doing this, and because I as so scared, she let me buy a new tape to play in my Walkman while I had my filling done. I chose Thriller. I listened to that cassette about a million times. By the end of its run it didn't even play quite right.

In that same time frame I remember a visit with a friend in California when some company started selling a rhinestone encrusted "Michael Jackson" glove. I remember her begging her mom to buy her one. And I remember thinking how cool that would be. Keep in mind I was really really young. I also thought the moonwalk was pretty awesome. I've grown up a bit since then in my appreciation of dance and accessories. I promise.

And then I outgrew Michael Jackson completely. My musical tastes changed, I got too cool for Mr. Goody-goody. By the time Bad, came out I was way over it. And I don't know if it just my perspective, or if I'm right on when I say, he pretty much sucked after that. He all but disappeared from my consciousness.

I still saw him on tv, still saw the news coverage. Over the years I saw him turn strange and really kind of creepy. I wish that never happened. Not only because I worry about what really happened to those little kids, but because now, today, now that he's dead I have to reconcile my love of that early music with the weird and sad person he became.

Where were you?

Mr. Dog and I are about to celebrate seven years of wedded bliss. That's right, we got married right after Sept 11, 2001. September 11th was a Tuesday that year, our wedding was Saturday, Sept 15th.

I had an appointment for physical therapy early that morning and then was supposed to go in to work for the last day before I took off for the wedding. I remember thinking the DJs on the radio were making a terrible, tasteless joke as they discussed what they were hearing from callers. I remember pulling into the parking structure and seeing the plane fly right into the tower, and even then I don't think I grasped the full impact of what this meant. Just how much it would alter the world.

I went home to find Mr. Dog. We sat in stunned slience watching endless news reports, constant rebroadcasting of the second plane's impact. We sat together until we couldn't watch anymore. We decided to go out to the park with the dogs. And it turned out we were not alone in needing to talk to other people.

I remember standing in Dolores Park that afternoon with Mr. Dog and a group of our dog park friends discussing who could possibly be responsible for such a horrific act of terrorism. I remember the sounds of police or fire engine sirens in the distance bringing our small group to absolute silence. I remember discussing what might happen next, if San Francisco was safe.

Later that day we learned that Mr. Dog's sister had been on a flight that in the air as the attacks took place. Her flight was grounded in Las Vegas. We had no way to reach her. The airline would not give any details on the accommodation arrangements made for the people stranded by the emergency landings. This made me worry more. And I was also worried about other guests who might have been in the air, several coming from New York or Boston, and I worried that they were on those planes.

Mr. Dog and I discussed canceling the wedding, the logistics of rescheduling everything we'd been planning for over a year, and then decided against it. We were not going to put off our marriage, that was important.

Guests called to cancel, other called to reassure us they were going to do whatever it took to get there. I remember distinctly telling a couple of guest that there was no way I'd expect them to get on a flight. Turns out the bigger problem was getting on a flight at all, airports closed and opened with almost no notice. Mr. Dog's brother tried, but no flights were leaving the NY area. Mr. Dog's friend from Boston managed to cobble together a series of connecting flights that let her arrive just as I walked down the aisle. She was meant to be part of his wedding party, and though she did not get to stand up with him as we said our vows, I am still humbled by her tenacity and commitment to be there to celebrate with us. My grandparents also were able to fly. Only because a kindly security officer saw my 90-something grandfather waiting in he massive queue that stretched the length of the sidewalk in front of the St. Louis departures terminal and brought him to the head of the line. I think of this man's kindness every time I think of our wedding.

And I think of the others who attended unexpectedly. A friend of a guest, unable to return to London. A friend who had declined because he had been planning to be in New York with friends suddenly became available. I later heard that one of the friends he was going to visit had perished in the towers.

I remember my dad, when delivering his toast, thanking everyone for coming to celebrate our joy despite the national tragedy. And I remember the relief we all felt for having a few hours away from the horror. (I also remember our friends partying like it was the end of the world, and I suspect we drank the open bar dry). And when the reception was over, we invited everyone over to our apartment, and continued on until the wee hours.

We see the aftermath of these events all around us now. At the time we didn't really know to the extent it would shape our experiences. I knew it was monumental, but I don't think I could have ever predicted just how broad the scope of impact would be. I don't think anyone could.

So where were you seven years ago?

Let's Go Skating...then again

I decided to take Big Dog ice skating. No, I do not ice skate. We had been watching ice skating at Grandma and Grandpa's and my sweet boy turned to me and said, "I want to do that mommy" How do you refuse? "You want to ice skate?" I asked. "Yes" he said "I want to do that with you" So it had to happen. When the sweet voice of a preschooler asks you to ice skate, it is impossible to turn him down. I have never ice skated. Actually, I have never successfully ice skated. I tried once, fell down a lot and gave up. Why I thought I'd be fit to take a child on the ice is beyond me. I invited our sitter to come along and watch Little Dog while Big Dog and I tried our skates out. She has skated before, actually did a lot of it as a child. If worse came to worst and I was too clumsy on ice to take him out, she could help him out. It never even came to that. We arrived at the ice rink, rented our skates, suited up and teetered to the ice. Big Dog stepped into the rink and slipped, I caught him and set him back on his feet before he fell, but that was enough. He was done. I tried to get him to give it a try, I got on the ice and helped him stay upright despite his best efforts to return to the safety of the padded floors. After a few minutes, I gave in and went back to the seating where our sitter was watching...and laughing. She decided to take a spin on the ice to show him how fun it was. After one lap around the rink she checked in. Was he going to join her, hell no. But he did demand that she skate again and praised for for being a "very good skater!". One other highlight of the trip was meeting a chatty 5 year-old at the next table. He could burp the alphabet. He likes pizza. He has his Christmas tree up already. Did I mention he could burp the alphabet? When our sitter returned from her third lap around the rink, she sat down with us for a bit. Big Dog asked her to do one more for him. She replied that she needed to rest and commented to me "A little ice skating shows how out of shape I am" to which our friendly 5 year-old piped in "maybe you should go to a gym...you know...get more exercise" Nice kid. I'd hate to meet his parents.