My Bit of Earth

The Over/Under Dilemma

I've decided that one of the hardest parts of being a mom is knowing when you are over or under reacting to threats or dangers to your child.  

Before-the-Kid I thought it was pretty black and white.  If the baby is sick, you stay home with him, for example.  But what if his fever is under 100 degrees and he's acting just fine?  What if it's just that his nose is runny and he's coughing a little?  If one of us stayed home with him every day that he was just a tid bit under the whether, we probably wouldn't have jobs--there has to be a balance and some judgment there.  I don't want to needlessly expose him to danger, but he can't live in bubble wrap either.  And while there are some things that, of course, are non-negotiable, I'm finding that they truly are few and far between.

We had the Kiddo's first trip to the emergency room Sunday morning.  Moe was eating breakfast, and the Kid tried to reach into his food bowl.  Moe bit him badly enough that he has four stitches in his forehead.  

Other than probably a little scar, the Kid is fine.  He was calling for "dog" two seconds after we got home, in fact.  (Still no "mama"!)

I know that, in the grand scheme of things, it was a minor injury.  I know that there are parents and kids out there going through so much worse.  But if I never have to watch a doctor hold my baby down and stitch his head back together again, it will be too soon.

Our initial reaction was that Moe had to go.  There was no way around it, and we would be horrible parents if we did anything else.  The second the words came out of my mouth I started bawling.  While the introduction of the Kid has unseated Moe from his place as king-of-our-hearts to mere beloved-dog, he's still family.  As Sweet Husband likes to say, "He may be an asshole, but he's our asshole."  And having just lost Porter two weeks ago...it was too much.

But then we came home, talked with our parents--grandparents are a great barometer for knowing when you're overreacting, by the way--and started to think that maybe we wouldn't be awful parents if we gave Moe a second chance.  Maybe getting rid of him wasn't something we had to do, akin to covering electical outlets and putting up baby gates.

Upon calmer reflection, I came around to the idea that we were probably the ones that needed to be whacked on the nose, so to speak.  After all, babies are naturally curious and dogs are naturally protective of their food--it's the parents that have to keep those two characteristics from coming into conflict, and we failed both of them in that respect.  

But, at the same time, we obviously are not as dog-and-kid-wise as we thought we were--at least not with the combination of Moe (the crazy full-tilt terrier) and the Kid (who is turning out to have his mama's penchant for jumping right in and learning the hard way).  

So, the upshot is, Moe is staying for now.  We're investigating the resources available in the area for dog trainers who work with dogs and kids, taking things day-by-day...and probably exercising the crap out of Moe, just for good measure.

I still don't know if that's an under reaction.  I'm pretty certain it's not an over reaction.  I know a lot of people would just give Moe up, but I just can't--not without at least giving it one good, all-out try.

Life With Dogs

We took Porter's ashes out to the lake today.  We spent so much time walking the trails out there when we first moved to Lawrence and didn't have a yard.  It felt good to leave her in a place she loved.

Walking back--in the freezing wind--Sweet Husband and I started talking about the special dogs that have been part of our lives.  Odie for him, and, for me, a chow-lab-golden mix named Bum.

Bum arrived at our house a few weeks before I got home from spending the Summer with my dad.  I was ten?  Eleven?  We lived in the country, and she was one of many who had been dumped.  My mom didn't want to encourage her to set up camp by feeding her, but she could hardly deny her water in the middle of a Kansas summer.

She set up camp underneath our back porch regardless, but she shyly refused to make friends.  Until I came home.  

It's so weird how memory works.  I couldn't tell you who my teachers were that year, but I remember the exact color of the dirt as I sat, cross-legged, on the ground waiting patiently for her to be brave enough to come out and take some food from my hand.  Eventually she did, and five minutes later we were best friends.

She got me through seventh grade the same way Porter got me through my first year of law school.  By having soft ears, a sympathetic expression, and the luckiest way of doing something hilarious when things seemed dire.

I like to think of them all--Bum, Odie, Porter--hanging out wherever it is that we all go, comparing notes on us, their silly humans.

And I like to think of the Kid and Moe.  They aren't best friends yet, but--if Moe lays off the chocolate--some day they might be.

How do people get though life without dogs?

Walking It Off

Thank you all so much for the nice notes and "woofs" my email in-box has been full of.  It's been the best part of these past couple days. 

I have to say, I've never been so glad to see Monday morning.  This may go down in the family annals as The Most Awful Weekend Ever.  In addition to the news of Porter, we had our first family illness, and it was a doozy.  

Inspired by the last Harry Potter DVD, I started calling it the Immobulus Flu.  Everything was great, as long as I didn't move.  Sweet Husband and I had a miserable 12 hours in which, as a friend aptly put it, we played the worst game of hot potato ever with the baby.  The Kiddo was really sick for a day, and puny for a few days beyond that.

Thankfully, we're all physically on the mend.

Emotionally, it's still touch and go.  I've finished my Christmas knitting, I've started pulling decorations up from the basement, we've almost finished the third season of Battlestar Galactica...and still there's all this empty time.  

I don't know why exactly, but--as it always does when I'm sad or angry or working something out--walking seems to help.  We went to the lake Saturday evening.  I went back to take some pictures today.  We walked downtown and back for breakfast this morning.  I'm not sure if I'm walking away from things or walking through them...or maybe it just feels like doing something.

I know it's going to break the hearts of both Moe and the Kid (not), but we may be walking a lot this Fall.

A Hard Goodbye

This morning we had to let Porter go.

I know it was the right thing to do--if anything, we might have waited too long.  This past week we've had to beg her to eat, and even with meds she wasn't comfortable anymore.

One of the hazards of being my friend (or husband) in real life is that I can talk a thing to death when it's worrying me.  As I was doing just that this week, one of my friends said that if her beloved dog ever got terminally sick she planned to do her best to give him one last perfect day--1000 tennis balls, his favorite food for dinner...you get the idea.  

I started thinking about how we could do that for Porter, but we had gotten to the point where there wasn't anything she was taking joy in anymore.  She used to have this look that just made you think, "What a happy dog!"  But lately, even just laying on her bed getting her ears scratched she was in pain.

I was actually hoping I would feel a little relieved when it was done.  It hasn't been easy watching her, and--further back than that even--it hasn't always been easy having a two dog household.  Sweet Husband still has a scar from a fight he had to break up between her and Moe last year.  And one of the first things we did--in my frantic need to "do something"--this afternoon was go buy Moe some new toys for in the house.  (We haven't had them in several years because of the fights they caused.)

We also took Moe for a long walk this afternoon, another thing we hadn't done in forever.  With the baby and Porter and...just life, I hadn't realized how much Moe was getting left at home just to keep Porter more comfortable.  (Oh, how she could howl when she was left alone!)

 

But it's crazy how empty the house feels tonight.  Porter was the most quiet, peaceful being here, but her absence is so loud.  I miss putting my nose on top of hers and scratching her furry ears, and I miss the way she always found a way to go to sleep right in the most inconvenient place.  I miss the way she always had to know where all her family members were.  And how, even towards the end, she would somehow pull herself up and wag her tail when I came home.  

She's been my friend for over ten years.  Through more houses and roommates and towns than I can even add up in my current state, she's always been there.  Quietly, unassumingly doing everything in her canine power to love me.

I know some time will help my perspective.  I hope that someday I'll feel like her sweet soul is free.  But right now it just feels like she's gone. 

Moe Speaks: Training Begins

We're working on his throwing arm, but he's getting the basic idea.  I think this new slave has promise!

Happy 14th Old Girl

[Me and Porter, circa 2000.]

I don't write much about Porter these days, but we have to mark her birthday, of course.  Her life right now is uneventful, as an old, well-loved dog's life should be.  

While the Kiddo is allowed a little license to--sometimes energetically--love on Moe, Porter is pretty much off-limits.  We figure she's earned the rest from small hands  just learning to "pet nice".

And resting is what she does most, although she still has a healthy appetite too.  She suffers a few minor indignities each day--being carried down the back stairs to go to the bathroom and upstairs to go to bed each night, being lifted when she has trouble standing on our wood floors--like the graceful older lady she is.  And that's pretty much her story.

I can't help but be a little sad as she slows down just a little more physically and mentally each day.  But mixed into that is some gratitude, as well.  If angels snored like freight trains, you just might convince me that she is one.  We're awfully lucky in getting to share so many years with her.

Moe Speaks: The Rules of the Kid

Mom says she hopes that someday the Kid will be my best bud.  I'm hoping this is child protective services appropriate code for "ball throwing slave".  

Right now though, there are all sorts of rules that I have to follow if I want to be around him. 

For starters, I'm not allowed to chew on his toys.  I don't understand the reason for this rule at all.  I mean, he chews on his toys--why can't I?

Also, while I'm allowed to sniff him or lick him sometimes, none of his body parts are allowed in my mouth.  In fact, no human body parts are allowed in my mouth, ever again!  I used to love rough housing with Dad, and, of course, I know to never bite down--I only mouth his hand a little.  But Mom said even that isn't allowed anymore.

Last--the most important rule--no sitting or standing on the baby.  Mom says I may lay next to him if I'm calm and good.  But, tell me, how on earth am I ever going to train him up to be my slave if he doesn't learn from the start that his proper place is under my paws?

Little Birds, Little Birds

 

About a month ago, a pair of starlings began making a nest on our (still unscreened) back porch.  Sweet Husband kept promising to chase them off, but he was so busy at the time.  And, even if they are nuisance birds, I was enjoying watching them furtively sneak bits of nesting material in and out, so I didn't push the issue.

A few weeks later, the tiny "cheeps" started.  

The video clip above doesn't do them justice.  It was shot during a "quiet" moment when only one wee bird was "talking".  When all of them get going, it's a bit maddening.

And when you combine their cheeps, with the cheeps of the seven small chicks in the shed--oh yes, if you stand in the yard, you can hear them all together--I've caught myself humming (to the tune of the song from Annie)....

"Some women are dripping with diamonds

Some women are dripping with pearls

Lucky me!  Lucky me!

Look at what I'm dripping with 

Liii-ttle birds...."

Good Sleep Karma

I had a dream the other night.  In my dream, I woke-up for what I knew was the first time that night, turned to look at our alarm clock, and saw that it said "7:30".  A choir of angels swooped in singing and bearing a bottle of champagne, and Sweet Husband and I hugged each other in our pajamas as the cork flew.

And then the Kiddo cried and I woke up for real...at 5:32.

But really, even though my subconscious apparently disagrees, that's completely livable.  We do last call at 10 or 11.  He wakes up once, only about an hour before my alarm clock would go off on a "school day".  And, because he's only up once a night now, Sweet Husband and I are trading "nights" instead of "shifts".  So, every other night, I get to sleep all night.

[The Kid, sleeping through breakfast on his dad's lap at a busy restaurant.]

I never know what to say when people ask how things are going with the baby.  There's no pat answer I can give that describes it, so I always end up reverting to his sleeping habits.  "We're only up once a night now, so things are good."  "He sleeps like a rock.  It's so awesome!"  "I don't understand how we got so lucky as to have a good sleeper."  And so on.

In a karmic kind of way, it scares me to draw attention to it though.  It's like saying "Voldemort" out loud.  'Cause even if this one keeps sleeping the night away (and that could certainly change at any moment) what if we decide to have another some day in the far, far away future?  I'm a little afraid that we've gotten our fair portion of sweet, sleepy baby and any others would be terrors. 

Reminds me of when we decided to get Moe.  Porter had been so little trouble, that it was like, "How bad could a second dog be?"  Come to think of it, that was the last time Sweet Husband and I slept in shifts--the months after we brought Moe home.  He thought he needed to be let out three or four times a night, and cried so loud that ignoring him was not even a possibility.

Actually, maybe I'm looking at this all wrong.  Maybe the Kiddo is karma's way of paying us back--in a good way--for not selling Moe-moe to the gypsies.

I'm Lucky I Have Access to the Refridgerator

I've been on a campaign lately to re-win my dogs' affections.  (Or really just to re-win Moe's affections--I think we could beat Porter and she'd still love us, she's just that kind of dog.)

The thing is, I get so irritated at people who let their baby completely replace their dog.  I'm not saying the baby shouldn't take priority over the dog--duh.  I'm talking about those situations where the dog suddenly goes from sleeping next to you in bed to sleeping outside tied to a tree, for no other reason than that the humans have a new creature to love and, hence, don't need the dog anymore.  It's a little heartbreaking.

But, while Moe is still mostly ensconced at the foot of bed--and certainly has never even been in danger of sleeping outside of our bedroom--he's definitely been demoted, and he knows it.  There's been more, "Moe NO!" in the past month and half than anytime in his life.  (Well, maybe excluding a few trying months of his puppyhood....)  

"Moe OFF!"  (the pile of clean laundry)

"Moe LEAVE IT!"  (the baby's bottle or dirty diaper)

"Moe SOMEWHERE ELSE!"  (a.k.a. get out from under my feet before I trip over you)

"Moe...ARGH!"

I hadn't necessarily even realized how offended he was getting until about a week ago.  One evening when I finally had time to cuddle and Sweet Husband's extra hands to hold the babe, I called Moe to come sit with me on the couch.  He stuck his little terrier nose in the air, jumped on the couch, and purposely curled up as far away from me as possible.  Ouch.

Fortunately, he doesn't hold grudges for long--a few scratches under the armpits, a few well timed lumps of cheese and lunch meat, and we're on the path to hunky-dory again.  As long as I know how to open the fridge they can't hate me too much.

My Guys At Rest, Redux

(Moe is irreplaceable, of course...but he has lost his favorite lap space.  Don't feel too bad for him though.  He was cuddling with the other parent when this picture was taken!)

Moe Speaks: My New Small Human Slave

I've long suspected something was up with Mom.  She hasn't let me snuggle on her tummy for months now, and, really, she was too fat for me to snuggle there anyway.  Apparently, she was growing a small human in there, and a few weeks ago he finally came out to play with me.

Except he doesn't seem to want to play much yet.  Mostly he just sleeps and makes poo.  And cries--I do not like it when he cries.  It sets me all a dither, and I whine at Mom and Dad so that they'll take proper care of him and make him stop.  

In general, I like the smell of him.  (Although, for some reason, Mom objects to me putting my cold nose on his forehead when he's sleeping.)  I think, with time, I will be able to train him to be a quite useful Welshie slave.  Perhaps we'll raise him up to be my exclusive ball-thrower, yes?

Half a Moe of Snow

I've been practicing for my maternity leave this week.  Holed up at home because of the snow.  Not much contact with other humans.  Not much incentive to go outside.  For as much as I've been daydreaming about getting to lock myself away and give in to the sloth over these past few weeks, the reality has been a bit less exciting.  I took a two hour nap this afternoon, just because I was bored.

I think it will be more exciting when there's a baby to take care of.  A little bit of rhythm to the day, new challenges and all of that.  But for today my cabin fever must have been showing on my face, because when Sweet Husband got home, his first words were, "Let's get you out of the house for a while...."

So we booted-and-bundled and leashed up the pups.  The only coat that will button over my belly these days is Sweet Husband's huge parka, which covers me from ears to knees--quite the effect, particularly when combined with my baby-waddle, but it is warm.  

The snow--about 8 inches according to the weather people--came up to Moe's belly, and it was terribly funny watching him try to poop without letting it touch his bum.  And, of course, there was some fetch-with-snowballs, one of Moe-moe's favorite winter sports.

Porter was enjoying the excursion as well, until she unexpectedly walked into a snow drift and got high-centered.  After being rescued and carried to better shoveled sidewalks she was done humoring the rest of us, so we headed home.

(And thankfully, it looks like work is back open tomorrow morning!)

From the Breakfast Table

I believe I've mentioned that, as part of the division of labor in our household, Sweet Husband is in charge of the weekend breakfasts.  And now that just standing in the kitchen sipping coffee and watching makes me tired (*whine*), I've migrated to a dining room chair.  From there, I can nicely keep company, read interesting bits from the paper aloud, and, of course, knit a few rows of this or that.

The dogs seem to approve.  Each of them were happy to find a square of sunlight to nap in and wait for breakfast.

And what was breakfast, you may ask?

A darned awesome frittata.  Potatoes, eggs (courtesy of the Misses Ingrid and Lani), gouda, scallions, and just a touch of bacon grease to keep it all from sticking to the pan.  The pups had to make do with it plain (poor babies, I know), but I took mine with a nice lug of sour cream on top.

Knitting. A lot.

So, I'm knitting.  A lot.

The end of January is always a little prone to being slow.  Garden planned.  Check.  House clean.  Check.  Bags packed.  Check.  

I've checked out just about every book on animal husbandry our library has, imaginary pets being a hobby of mine.  I've decided against rabbits (too cute, too much like terrier prey), but for pigs (bacon=yes, please).  The jury is still out on turkeys, but I think I'd like a few if further research reveals I can raise them near chickens.  And definitely some goats, of course.  After all, I'll need their fleece for my imaginary yarn spinning.

I'm also thinking about rearranging my fabric stash--and may yet--but so far the sitting on the floor for two hours part has deterred me.  Another impediment is that I haven't hit on the best way to reorganize it yet, and just pulling it all out and refolding it seems a waste of energy.

And--in news that's actually relevant--we've decided on a name, I think.  No, I'm not telling you.  No, not even if you gave birth to me.  My complete lack of poker face has verified a few accurate guesses, but otherwise I'm trying not to jinx it.  And it's not super set-in-stone yet, so it's not technically lying when I tell people we're still not sure.  

But I have been testing it out here and there for two or three weeks, and so far it seems to be sticking.  There is a little matter regarding the spelling to be resolved...and we're going to have to come up with some sort of blog name too, preferably one that I haven't already used for the dog...but that's small potatoes.

Other than that...I'm knitting.  A lot.

In fact, I thought about it the other day and realized I have three sweaters, all waiting for nothing more than sleeves.  (These two are much further along now than they were when I last photographed them.  They're much more in-focus in real life too.)

Plus, a finished tank top and some cable-y hats for other people's babies.

And then I started sweater number four the other day.

I'm keeping my promise to myself re: limiting the number of infant sweaters that get made--so far these are all in next-year-sizes.  However, depending on how things go (I say that a lot lately), I may have to get some cotton and whip up a tiny Spring jacket.  (I say "depending" but really I'm already trying to track down the specific yarn I want, so you should take that with a grain of salt.)

So, yeah...knitting.  A lot.  

Happy Birthday Moe-Moe Head!

Six years old today!  The birthday boy has been having gastrointestinal issues of the room-clearing variety lately, so he may have to hold out for the cake, but I think an evening romp in the snow is definitely in order.

What the Dogs Do

Between the weather and the holidays, I've had many afternoons lately in which to carefully study the behavior of my dogs.  After meticulous observation, I've decided that the answer to "I wonder what my dogs do while I'm at work all day?" is a very simple one....

The answer is that they are lazy, shiftless bums.

Portrait of a Snow Day

Our first real snow of the year--five inches and still counting.  For about a month now, curling up in my jammies and staying home has been my goal in life.  It was nice to have an excuse to do just that.

And since I was holing up, I decided to do the thing properly and had myself a little afternoon tea.  Blueberry muffins from a box with little pats of cold butter, washed down with hot raspberry leaf tea.  

I'm trying to think of a way I could work this into my normal workday.  I just don't know if it would have the same effect while sitting over my desk?

The Ladies do not approve of the snow.  The ducks ventured out a few times just to investigate, but the chickens remained firmly ensconced in their snow-free run enjoying some extra scratch.

Not so much for the terrier, who thinks all weather is good for playing fetch.  Porter is more of the chickens' opinion regarding the snow, but she did think highly of the nice paths some good fairies came and shoveled for her.  (I just barely caught a glimpse as they were dashing away, but I suspect they are the very same fairies that onetime brought us a very large pumpkin pie.)

My Guys At Rest

Moe Speaks: Strange and Nice Happenings

First, and perhaps most concerning, all this funny stuff keeps showing up at our house.  My room is completely full of it--small clothes that are not made to dog proportions, stuffie toys that I'm not allowed to play with (although, on occasion, I have), a strange contraption that looks like a puppy crate without a roof....and then Dad brought home this chair.  

While I fully approve of being given a seat at the human dinner table, something about this one just doesn't smell quite right.  And it doesn't have a hole in the back for my tail to stick through--a very big design flaw!

Then, my Pretty Auntie came to stay with us a few weekends ago.  She and Mom and Dad baked up a storm, but none of it was for me.  And when I tried to investigate better, Mom dropped a scoop of powdered sugar on my tail.  I won't pretend I didn't enjoy cleaning it off, but for a few minutes I was powdered-up like a baby-doughnut-dog and they were all laughing at me.

But then, something good happened.  A package arrived in the mail, just for me!  (Well, mostly for me.  I think Mom may have skimmed a few things off the top as an "opener's fee"--she does have the advantage of having thumbs....)

Every year my Welshie brother-from-another-mother, Fergus, marches in the Alexandria Scottish Christmas Walk with a group of other Welshies.  They all walk in the parade together and wear ever-so-manly looking kilts.  (Here's a lovely portrait of Fergus modeling his.)  Mom had promised we could go this year as long as "something impossible" did not intervene, which, of course, it did.  (Somehow it always does when there's mud and fun to be had.)  

But Fergus and his mum were still thinking of us, and whaddya know, they sent me my very own kilt!  Combined with a shave-and-a-haircut, I think it makes me look quite manly!