Movin’ on up

Hi folks! Okay: update your links and RSS feeds and all that stuff, because I’m now blogging at a new URL on a spandy new dedicated server. This should allow me to do a lot more stuff with the format and content, so look for some long-needed changes in the coming weeks.

Follow me to The Mother Tongue!

The Thrilla from Wasilla

I’m still digesting the news, but here are my thoughts on McCain picking Palin for his VP:

1) Huh, didn’t see that one coming.

2) The race is on! It’s neck and neck between Obama and McCain now. Not just in the general election, but in the race to see whose Veep has the most Total Teflon personal life.

3) Already seeing the sexist comments tricklling in on political forums. How many people would describe a male politician as “feisty”? Last time I heard a politician described as feisty, it was Geraldine Ferraro. Draw your own conclusions.

4) Speaking of which, you know what’s really sexist? Inviting Hillary’s supporters to vote for her so they can go ahead and finish cracking that glass ceiling. Well, why not? One female politician’s as good as another, right? I mean, they have so much in common… (And no, I’m not making judgments over which of them is the better public servant; I’m just saying they’re apples and oranges in pantyhose.)

One thing’s for certain: this election just got a little more interesting, and a whole lot more historic. No matter who wins, we’re tearing down a 219-year-old sign on the White House that says “White guys only”.

Pink Floyd for Babies and other internet oddities

It’s been one of those weeks, y’all. I’ve been too busy to blog because I’m on deadline for a big honking project (so when you all look through the Fall Arts Preview, please know that those music listings were written in my sleep-deprived tears. *SOB*).

But this blog ain’t gonna write itself, so here’s a short list of interesting stories and sites I’ve come across in the past few weeks. Read and enjoy!

Deja Poop: The Tragedy of Grover (linked via Fark.com)
In the history of children’s programming, has anybody gotten screwed over more than Grover?

BlogHer Conference Nashville
I am totally there. Well, me and Mrs. Who, so WATCH OUT NASHVILLE. Anyone else going?

Forbidden LEGO: Build the Models Your Parents Warned You Against!
I want to build a continuous-fire ping-pong ball launcher. Yes.

Rockabye Baby!
I saw these the other day at Jo-Beth. The Pink Floyd album is so, so wrong.

Giant Microbes
As if the little rugrats don’t collect enough germs, you can now buy them in plushie form. The athlete’s foot one is kind of cute, actually.

Mighty Haus
Awesome housewares shopping. It’s the newest manifestation of Maggie Mason’s Mighty Goods. And don’t forget to check out Mighty Junior, her shopping site for kids’ stuff.

IKEA Hacker
Simple idea: modify IKEA products to make something cool. Gives your home a more customized look, and it’s often way cheaper than comparable products. Love it!

Crayon Physics Deluxe
This has to be the most interesting computer game I have ever seen.

Well, that’s it for this round of internet randomness, but don’t worry—there’s plenty more where that came from. Til next week, when I will be sane(r)…

Um, no. Not those elves.

My big brother, who has been discussing with his wife whether or not to have kids, asked me the other day what was so great about parenthood. I offer the following anecdote as supporting evidence:

In a move of unsurprising geekery, I’ve begun reading The Hobbit to my son at bedtime. I wouldn’t have thought to read it to him when he’s so young, but he was absolutely enthralled when I flipped on The Fellowship of the Ring for a few minutes yesterday. And then I realized what an amazing story it all was, and remembered how I had loved it as a child—the dwarves with their haunting songs, Gandalf and his inscrutable ways, the slimy Gollum in his black underground lake, the wily dragon Smaug laying in wait on his mountain of treasure. And in the thick of it all, a very small, very scared person who turns out to be a hero after all. What’s not to like about The Hobbit, if you’re an adventure-minded kid?

So last night I put the Sprog to bed, then got out the book and started talking to him about it. It’s a big novel, after all, so a little plot summary can’t hurt. We even looked at the map in the back of the book after we read the first chapter, and I pointed out important things from the story. It was then that the following exchange occurred:

Me: Okay, so there’s Hobbiton. Who lives there?

Sprog: Hobbits! Bilbo Baggins!

Me: Right, and there’s Mirkwood, the big forest where the BIG! GIANT! SPIDERS! live!

Sprog: (laughing) EEK!

Me: And here’s Rivendell—that’s where all the elves live.

Sprog: They do?

Me: In the book, yes.

Sprog: But…where do they really live?

Me: You mean in real life?

Sprog: Yeah! Where?

Me: Well, they don’t live anywhere in real life; they’re just pretend.

Sprog: What?!?!

Me: They’re just in stories, honey.

Sprog: Then how do you make graham crackers?

Me: Um…

Ladies and gentlemen, this is why I love having kids.

I’ll knit the straitjacket next

It’s 90 degrees outside, but Christmas is breathing down my neck. As someone who prefers a laid-back approach to the holidays, it pains me to admit that, but it’s true. And I brought it all on myself, too. In a fit of total insanity, I decided to knit a bunch of stuff to give as Christmas gifts this year. Including two sweaters and countless pairs of socks. And did I mention that I’m also knitting items to sell at a craft bazaar in November? I know, I must have been dizzy on the merino fumes when I signed up, but there it is. I’m hosed.

But you know what? It’s a fun ride down in the proverbial handbasket. And moreover, it’s such a boost to the self-esteem when everything turns out okay. I won’t lie: I’ve frogged enough screwed-up projects to fill a pond, but when it all comes together, it’s just magic. I can sit back and say, Whoa, I just made that with two sticks and some string. It’s even better when I try something new, like lace or cables, and discover it’s not so awful after all.

Well, not lace. Lace really is awful. I’ve been working on the Branching Out scarf from Knitty.com off and on since May, and I’m still weeping and gnashing teeth over it. In fact, I started it on the drive to Washington DC, and by the West Virginia border I was ready to throw the whole thing into the Ohio River. Only thing that stopped me was that it’s angora/silk yarn, and dude, you do not throw away that kind of Zsa Zsa yarn.

But I’ve put the scarf aside for now in favor of the essential Christmas projects; right now I’m working on a sweater for my mother-in-law as penance for the too-tight one I crocheted her a few years ago. She was gracious about it, but I’m going to do my level best to never again make a garment that suggests my mother-in-law ought to be smaller. That way lies certain death. So I’m being very careful this time—measured her within an inch of her life, scoured the internet for patterns that looked just right. And when the right pattern didn’t present itself, I took a deep breath and designed my own. I’ll let you know how that works out after I figure out how to knit a scoop neck.

In the meantime, please enjoy this video I found that pretty well sums up the madness and addiction of knitting:

Stripping is not an Olympic sport

If you’ve been reading my blog, you already know I love watching the Olympics. That said, I am really glad it’s almost over because I am so tired of the the women’s sports. Don’t get me wrong: I’m the biggest fan of female athletes, but I hate watching them trying to play volleyball with their butt cheeks hanging out of their bikinis. For heaven’s sake, they’re wearing less than their own cheerleaders. And there’s plenty of opportunity to ogle, too, since NBC has conveniently featured hours and hours of women’s beach volleyball in the prime time line-up every single night.

Or how about the female runners—why should they have to sprint in middie tops and Spanky panties? It’s certainly no benefit to their racing time, or the men would be wearing it too. But they’re not, of course. Male runners wear long shorts and full coverage shirts. Ditto with men’s beach volleyball. It’s only the women who have to put up with competing while their bodies are on display like a Skinemax sports fantasy.

So of course I was cheering madly when the Indian women’s beach volleyball team put their foot (feet?) down and refused to wear the mandated bikini. After some debate, the Olympic committee allowed them to wear t-shirts and loose shorts. I wish more women would take a stand like that, because requiring athletes to wear outfits like that is not only a sexist ratings grab, but it could be ruining sports for the future generation of women. A 2006 study showed that teenage girls were far less likely to compete in sports if it meant wearing form-fitting Lycra uniforms. Which they often are—this trend toward the skimpy isn’t just an Olympic phenomenon; it’s affecting sports leagues across the board.

Which is not good. According to various studies, girls who play sports generally have a higher self esteem, do better in school, don’t use alcohol or drugs as frequently, and also wait longer to begin having sex (which in turn means that female athletes have far lower rates of teen pregnancy).

So yes, I care very deeply about the (lack of) women’s Olympic uniforms. And if you object to the blatantly voyeuristic Olympic coverage, if you want to see women taken seriously as athletes, if you want to help teenage girls reach their full potential, then I hope you do, too.

A Sprog, a dog, and a rotten clown.

This entry is exactly the reason I don’t tell you all my son’s real name, because if his friends ever find out about this incident when he’s 16, he’ll never, ever live it down. And then he’ll grow up to be the kind of sad, bitter jerk who sends perfectly nice newspaper columnists poisonous little emails about why breastfeeding in public is an abomination. Not that I’m quoting or anything.

But I digress. This is about what happened two days ago. Wednesdays are always busy for me, so I put the baby down for a nap, then tried to occupy the Sprog in the next room so I could get some work done on the computer. He sat belly-up to the coffee table with the triple-threat of Legos, a snack, and a Disney movie, so I figured I was good to go.

I checked in on him a couple of times, and all was well until about an hour into the movie. I walked into the living room, and there was the Sprog, huddled up on the couch and sobbing. I rushed to him, worried that he was hurt.

“What’s the matter, sweetie?” I asked, pulling him into my lap.

He manfully wiped away his tears and hiccuped, “I don’t like it when little boys tell their dogs to go away! I don’t like it when mean clowns come back to get their dogs!” He broke down again and buried his face in my chest.

And then I realized that my son was crying his eyes out over Air Bud. Yes, that Air Bud. The one about the dog who plays basketball. Apparently, the dog, Buddy, originally belonged to a surly, incompetent clown (played by Mr. Noodle, which was also a little unnerving to the Sprog), but the dog ran away and was adopted by a lonely New Boy in Town. After the dog became a local basketball sensation, Giant Jerkface Clown came back to get him and cash in on his celebrity. There was a court scene, and the boy was compelled to give the dog back. But Buddy kept sneaking back to the little boy, so at one point the boy tearfully yelled at the dog to go away, and said he didn’t want him any more. Which was entirely unacceptable to the Sprog.

I comforted him and explained that the boy really did love his dog, and they ended up together and made many terrible sequels, so it was okay. Then he admitted that he was also worried someone would come and take Buster away from us, at which point he threw his arms around the dog and cried some more. The dog, for his part, gave me this roll-eyed look like, Hey, I didn’t sign up to be an Agony Aunt here. But he stayed still and let the Sprog love on him while I explained the miracle of the microchip, and how that meant that nobody could ever take Buster away.

He calmed down pretty soon after a good snuggle with a book and cookies, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day. Obviously, I don’t like to see him cry, but I’m so glad to see his little heart learning empathy, connecting with others and feeling their pain. It’s stuff like that that makes me fall in love with the little guy all over again. He’s got a good heart, that kid. Even if he did stuff his chicken nuggets under the couch cushions today.

Discuss: What was the first movie you remember crying over? What about your kids?

Moms are the big winners at the Olympics

Let’s see…This week I need to paint the bathroom, re-pot the mint and basil, bathe the dog, sort baby clothes to give away…oh, who am I kidding. I’m going to sit on the couch and watch the Olympics until my eyes bleed.

At least I’ll get some good knitting done. I wound seven huge hanks of yarn into center-pull balls over the weekend just while watching the Olympics, and I plan to get most of a sweater done by the time the Games are over. See, that’s how I justify it to myself. And to my husband, who would kind of like to play Halo III again when I’m not hogging the TV. But hey, it’s only two weeks out of every two years, so it’s okay…right? Right???

Really, though, I just can’t tear myself away. Maybe it’s because I’m a mommy blogger this time around, but the mommy athletes are really catching my attention. Win or not, they’re all champions. Consider:

Torres waved to the crowd while holding her daughter, Tessa, after winning the women's 50-meter swim at the USA Swimming Nationals in Indianapolis.

–Dara Torres, 41, who has a 2-year-old daughter and is swimming in an unprecedented fifth Olympics; could have been her seventh, but she sat out for two. To combat rumors that she must be doping to swim like that, she voluntarily submits to frequent blood and urine tests.  She and her teammates just won silver in the womens’ relay event, and she has an impressive stack of individual medals from past Olympics. My favorite part from the New York Times article: “Three and a half months postpartum, she raced at the Masters World Championships. Fifteen minutes after nursing Tessa in the bathroom, she swam the first leg of the 50-meter freestyle relay in 25.98 seconds — fast enough to qualify for this week’s Olympic trials.”

–Melanie Roach, 33, the best female weightlifter America has ever produced. Not only did she come back from a herniated disk to finish sixth in Beijing, but she found time to train in spite of being a politician’s wife with three children, one of whom has autism.

–Oksana Chusovitina, 33, a former Soviet gold medalist in gymnastics who is now competing for Germany. She became a German citizen so that her son Alisher, who had leukemia, could receive free medical treatment (her native Uzbekistan had no children’s oncology treatment available).

– Xian Dongmei of China, also 33 (what is it with the 33-year-olds?), who just defended her gold medal in judo only 18 months after the birth of her daughter.

And how about the girls in general? Like the Russian and Georgian sharp-shooters hugging each other on the medal platform. Or how about the legendary bad blood between swimmers Laure Manaudou and Federica Pellegrini over the same guy. I’d watch the swimming just for that, but I’m a swim freak in general.

Good grief, did you all watch that epic 4-man relay? The suspense for me was divided between whether the US would win and whether Michael Phelps’ Speedo was going to fall right off his butt while he was celebrating.

But hands down, the best part of the Olympics this year? I have DVR, BAY-BEE. Now I don’t have to miss one single, scintillating second of the Olympics. My husband is so thrilled, let me tell you.

Don’t go to McDonald’s for that milkshake

I swear, you all are killing me. I’m actually running out of catchy blog post titles that have to do with breastfeeding.

So it’s happened again. A woman was discreetly nursing her baby in a restaurant, but was (illegally) asked to cover up or leave. Last summer, it was Brooke Ryan at the Applebees on Richmond Rd. Right now it’s about Jessica Denny at a McDonald’s in Berea.

I’ve already said everything I have to say about the issue of breastfeeding in public, so I won’t rehash it, but two things struck me about this particular incident:

1) According to the story, the police refused to acknowledge that McDonalds had acted illegally because Denny was not breastfeeding right there in front of them when they got there, and they said they “have to operate on what’s going on when [they] get there.”

Wow. So they’re saying that it would be completely impossible to pull out a little flip notebook, walk into the restaurant, and interview a few witnesses who might corroborate the complainant’s story? You know, like, actually investigate? It’s a good thing they don’t use that kind of logic at a murder scene. “Well, ma’am, we’d like to arrest this guy for the murder of your sister, but we didn’t see him do it, and we have to operate on what’s going on when we get there.”

On the other hand, maybe it’s understandable for them to be a teensy bit lazy about investigating since…

2) There is no penalty whatsoever for breaking the law that protects a woman’s right to breastfeed in public. None. So why should the police bother investigating? And more to the point, why should any business care about enforcing the law?

State Sen. Tom Buford (R-Nich.), was the sponsor of the breastfeeding law we have now, and according to the story, he said that “lawmakers could add a civil fine of $1,000 or $2,000 to make businesses pay attention.”

Come on, Buford, you can do better than that. How about something like, “I’ll personally sponsor a measure that would add a civil fine of $1,000 or $2,000″? You know, take some action, and put a little Tabasco in it, man.

Because he’s absolutely right: the only way to stop businesses from harassing breastfeeding mothers is to make those businesses pay up when they screw up. Then maybe they’ll see fit to train their employees right and give mothers the common courtesy they deserve.

Milk fever

Okay. I’m finally ready to talk about this. Only took me…what, ten months? But this is World Breastfeeding Month, and I am nothing if not on-topic. So hang in there, because this has been a long, bumpy ride.

Last July I wrote about my agonized decision not to breastfeed so that I could get back on Adderall, the only medication I had ever taken that effectively managed my ADD and depression. I have probably hinted around at the aftermath of that decision, but I haven’t really discussed it. That was deliberate. The last ten months have not been fun, and I don’t much like talking about it.

But I will talk about it because I know many other moms are in the same boat. This blog gets dozens of hits every week from search engine terms like “adderall and breastfeeding”. When I see those search terms on my Trackback section, I always say a prayer for the wisdom and peace of the woman typing it. Goodness knows they’ll need it.

So, to make a long story short: I followed through with my decision to go back on Adderall, but it’s been a rough ride. To make a short story longer: For the first few weeks of Baby Girl’s life, I happily breastfed her. She was a champion nurser, and it felt wonderful, complete to have that connection with her. The problem was, the rest of my life was falling apart.

I know that the first few weeks with a newborn are always crazy. I remember it clearly from when the Sprog was a newborn. But this was something over and above that. I had managed to cling to the stark edge of sanity while I was pregnant, but the stress of having a newborn and a 3-year-old just about sent me over the edge. I yelled at my husband and the Sprog constantly. I would get so angry that I regularly locked myself up in the bedroom closet and beat the walls with my palms just so I could get rid of all that fury and function normally. I couldn’t think straight or pay attention to anything. I couldn’t sleep when the baby slept. I couldn’t even sleep when everyone else slept, even though I was so exhausted. I regularly fantasized about grabbing my car keys and making a break for it. Anywhere, anywhere. Even so, I still couldn’t bring myself to start taking the Adderall again because I loved breastfeeding that much.

But a week after Baby Girl was born, the decision was made for me: In order to treat a hellacious UTI, I had to take an antibiotic that was contraindicated for breastfeeding. So that was that. I nursed Baby Girl for the last time that evening (or so I thought), and I tried hard to memorize everything about it. I cried the whole time, so much that her baby fuzz hair was literally wet with my tears. I let her fall asleep while nursing, and still held her against me for a long time after she broke the latch. Then I wiped my face, buttoned my shirt, and took my antibiotic.

The next morning, I put on two sports bras and took my Adderall. I felt the difference almost immediately: I felt awake, in control of myself, and totally present in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. It was wonderful. Even with the horrendous pain in my breasts, I sailed through the day and then slept like a rock. And if I was still a little loopy emotionally, I just chalked it up to post-partum hormones.

Now buckle your seat belt, because here’s where things really got crazy.

The problem with getting people to take meds is that they feel fine after they take them, and then with all the luxury of the fully medicated, they start wondering whether they ever really needed them at all. It’s a stupid trap to fall into, and I should have known better, but I didn’t. I got to thinking that maybe all my issues were only because of post-partum hormones, and perhaps I’d be alright without the Adderall now that I had been out of the hospital for a few weeks. But all that logic was just window-dressing, pure rationalization because of my desire to breastfeed.

My breasts were killing me, and Baby Girl wasn’t doing very well on the formula. She’s allergic to cow’s milk, but the soy formula was constipating her, and we flat-out could not afford the Nutramigin or Gentlease formulas. So there were times when she would just scream and scream with her legs drawn up to her chest. And I would sit there, rocking her uselessly, and think, “Good job, Mom. I hope your mental health was worth putting your baby through this kind of pain.”

What do you do if the medication that’s helping your depression is itself the cause of another source of depression? The benefits of Adderall were undisputed, but it was tearing me apart to watch my baby hurting so much. Finally, I had had enough. I decided to relactate, that I would be fine now, and that I must have been exaggerating to myself just how bad it was for me without the Adderall. My breasts had finally gone back to normal two days before then, and I was suddenly terrified that I had missed my chance, that I’d never be able to breastfeed my baby if I didn’t start back immediately. If I was able to do it at all, that is—I’d read heartwrenching stories online from women who wanted to relactate but couldn’t.

Adderall doesn’t stick around long in the body, so I began nursing Baby Girl again the very next day. It was heaven. But I wasn’t making much if any milk, so I ate oatmeal at every meal, guzzled Mother’s Milk tea, practiced kangaroo care with Baby Girl, and pumped every minute I didn’t have the baby with me. Within one day, all my milk was back, and at its original firehose strength. Baby Girl’s gassiness cleared right up, and we were both happy. For a day or so.

And then I went crazy. Turns out the Adderall was more than just breath mints, after all. I went right back to all the full-blown nuttiness I had experienced for the first week or so of Baby Girl’s life, and this time there was no question that it was because I was off my meds. But I felt like I couldn’t stop breastfeeding again because the baby’s tummy was feeling so much better. I didn’t know what to do, and it was absolutely killing me.

Relief finally came when I took Baby Girl to the pediatrician for her check-up. I unloaded all the drama and trauma that we had been going through, and he said, “Please don’t torture yourself over this—there are a lot of things we can do to help the baby’s tummy, but Adderall is the only thing that’s helping your sanity, and she needs you more than she needs your milk.”

Those were the magic words I had needed to hear. I put the sports bras back on when I got home and took my Adderall. Then I fixed a bottle for the baby with a teaspoon of apple juice in it. Her constipation cleared up quickly after that, but she continued to be gassy and even colicky, so we switched from apple juice to dark Karo syrup, and all of a sudden everything was roses.

I felt much better about not breastfeeding that second time around, especially after my milk dried up (again). I looked on it as a very painful, but very necessary lesson. Life was much better after that, though I still didn’t feel quite right.

I only really felt back to 100% after my OB-GYN diagnosed me with a nice fat case of post-partum depression two months ago and put me on an anti-depressant to complement the Adderall. I felt ridiculous for not having seen that coming—after all, what normal person has flashbacks to a dinky little fender bender a full year later?—but I was so relieved to be free of it that I didn’t care.

So what did I take away from this? Is there some kind of neat little moral to this story? A platitude to take to heart, preferably one that neatly wraps up a blog entry? I guess so. If I have learned anything, it’s that I really do need my meds, and that I can’t feel guilty anymore about not breastfeeding. I’ve learned that you have to do what is best for everyone in the family, and when you find that magic combination, you go with it and you apologize to nobody. Because I’m through apologizing. I didn’t breastfeed my daughter, however much I might have wanted to, and I am finally okay with that.

My lovely lady lumps

Forgive me, O intarwebs, for quoting Fergie in a blog post. I just can’t help myself.

Last week I wrote about how my friend Jan found a lump in her breast, and how it was a nice kick in the pants to go ahead and schedule my overdue yearly mammogram.

Which I did. And I went for the dreaded appointment on Wednesday… and it was fine. No internal drama-rama about my mother, and it didn’t even hurt that bad (the two may well be related). I knitted serenely in the waiting room, put on the flasher toga correctly, did whatever the radiology tech told me to do, and went home. No sweat. Well, except for the part where I wasn’t allowed to wear deodorant.

And the best part came today: completely normal results. I think that’s worth celebrating with a trip to the shoe store, don’t you? Of course (and let’s be completely honest here), if they’d found anything worrisome, I would have declared it occasion for retail therapy, so either way I score some new shoes. There’s always a silver lining.

I wrote a Twitter post about this earlier today, and received a great reply from Allison: “congrats on healthy boobies!” I totally think Hallmark needs to make a card for that.

Found this on I Can Has Cheezburger, couldn't resist posting it.

How much is that doggie in the window?

Photo courtesy of the Lexington Humane Society

Hmm, there’s something wrong with this picture. Here we have a dog who is obviously being well-cared for, and yet…there’s just something missing.

Okay, now this is more like it. Or even better yet:

Hoo boy. Now we’re talking!

So, as you may have guessed, we got a new dog. After multiple visits to the Humane Society, we finally found our boy. He’s a beagle/fox hound mix, one and a half years old, with no medical problems except being really skinny (we took away his copy of Cosmo and told him it’s okay to pinch an inch, so hopefully that’ll help). Also, he’s a vindictive snot when he doesn’t get his way, but I don’t think there’s a medical term for that. That might just be an inherent trait of beaglehood.

When we first saw him, he sat quietly in his kennel while we looked at his info card, totally motionless except for the frenetic thumping of his tail. When we opened the kennel to take him out to the play yard, he didn’t make a break for it, but didn’t shy away, either, which impressed the heck out of me. Once in the play yard, all he wanted to do was cuddle. He went back and forth from my husband to me, bucking his head up suggestively under our hands as if to say, “Look, these big floppy velvety ears aren’t going to scratch themselves, you know!”

He passed all of my aggression tests with outstanding marks (and has since proved to be the single most laid-back dog I have ever met who was not in fact dead. I think he’s actually photosynthesizing in that last picture). He snuffled Baby Girl and didn’t mind when she tugged his ears; he ran around amiably with the Sprog, though he wouldn’t play fetch. He was affectionate, but refused to give kisses. Still won’t, but I’m okay with that, considering that his mission in life is to get his testicles to regenerate by the never-ending licking of their sad, empty shell.

We all liked the dog, but my husband wasn’t sure about him, so we put an adoption hold on him and went home to think about it. The next night, my husband called me and finally gave the green light, so I finished up my work in record time and motored over to the Humane Society to get me a hound dog.

The only hitch in the process was when I went back to the kennel area to collect him and found the cage empty. I turned around and was horrified to see a darling little boy leading my dog around on a leash and loving on him as his dad looked on approvingly. In my head, I pictured him saying in a wholesome, Ovaltine commercial sort of way, “Can we keep him, Daddy?” And Daddy would say back, “You betcha, son! You deserve a dog after you helped that old lady across the street today. Keep up the good work!”

Readers, I did not know what to do. It just about killed me to go out there and tell that sweet little boy to give me my dog. I did it in the most cringing, apologetic way possible, but to his credit, the boy immediately smiled and handed over the leash, saying that he knew there were plenty of good dogs there. See? I told you he helps little old ladies across the street. But I still just about crawled out of there.

But I digress. I took the dog to PetSmart and spent $70 outfitting him with fluffy doggie beds, food, bowls, squeaky toys, rawhide bones, and other such accoutrements as befit a proper Prince of the Yard. Took him home and we all loved him up but good. I found myself feeding him Fatboy Specials, a dish I had prepared for PJ in his last days in an effort to get him to gain some weight, and it gave me a pang of unexpected nostalgia. Or maybe it was a dry heave, because dude, a peanut butter, bacon and Crisco sandwich is just gross. But it packs the calories, and this dog needs them bad.

The last problem we had, once the dog was home and installed, was that we were still calling him “the dog”. The shelter volunteers had called him Stevie, but I hated the name (a sentiment I shared with a friend whose cat’s name is—guess what?—that’s right, STEVIE. WILL I EVER BE ABLE TO TAKE THIS FOOT OUT OF MY MOUTH?). The husband and I went around and around on the issue, but we just couldn’t agree on anything. I think we’re still burned out from naming Baby Girl. Finally, I made up a list of all the names we had suggested and told the Sprog to choose one. He immediately picked “Buster”.

And don’tcha know, but he sure looks like a Buster, doesn’t he? So I called him over, held his head in my hands and said, “Buster. Your name is Buster.” And he sighed and laid his head in my lap, as if to say, “Okay, I guess I’m home after all. If you guys are going to name me, maybe you’ll keep me and be nicer than the last people who had me.”

And we will, too. Welcome home, Buster.

“The food so big! It’s bigger than a house!”

Me: What does God’s Pantry do?

The Sprog: They give food to little kids who don’t have peanut butter. They can’t buy it because they don’t have any money.

Me: And what did you see at God’s Pantry?

The Sprog: The food! The food so big! It’s bigger than a house! It’s bigger than lots of houses!

The Sprog did his very first charity/volunteer work yesterday, and I could not be prouder. But before you think I’m being outrageously, ostentatiously pious, please know that this all started because I got tired of listening to his endless campaign to own every toy in the free world.

We began giving the Sprog an allowance two months ago, but there were some serious strings attached. The system goes like this: He gets $20 on the first day of the month, all in quarters, and split up among three mason jars: 10% goes into the charity jar, then what’s left is split 50/50 between the savings jar and the spending money jar (decorated with a smiley face). If the Sprog misbehaves and time out is not an immediate option, he loses a quarter from the smiley face jar. But if I catch him doing some super-extra good, then at my discretion, I may give him a quarter back from limbo (the fourth jar, which has a frowny face on it).

One note though: this is not bribery. The Sprog is expected to behave, and to do it for free. The allowance is given to him as a matter of course, but will be taken away if he misbehaves. His behavior has improved greatly since we started this system, and he’s also (mostly) stopped griping about wanting me to buy him toys. When he sees something he really wants, he’ll just sigh and say, “Well, I guess I’ll have to save up my money for that!” SCORE.

But let us wend our way back to the original topic: the Sprog had a charity jar full of quarters, and I wanted him to understand what charity meant when he made his first donation with that money. So I called Rebecca Wallace, the senior development manager at God’s Pantry, and asked her about taking a tour with the Sprog. She enthusiastically welcomed us to come and see the warehouse, so yesterday we did just that.

For several days leading up to the trip, I talked with the Sprog about how lucky he is to always have food when he wants it, and how some people don’t have much food because they can’t afford it. He is already aware that people get paid money to work, and that money buys the things we need, like food and our house, etc., so it wasn’t a big stretch for him to understand what the lack of money meant (especially after he got turned down for several toys because he lacked the funding in his smiley face jar).

I reminded the Sprog about his charity jar, and asked him if he would like to use that money to buy food for people who couldn’t afford it. He was totally on board with that, and even voluntarily transferred a dollar from his smiley face jar into the charity jar, just to sweeten the pot. I love that kid so much.

Anyway, we took the Sprog’s charity jar and two bags of canned goods to God’s Pantry yesterday and met up with Rebecca. He gave her his quarters, but then got all bashful and hid behind me, grinning. She was very sweet and knew just how to talk to him (she has small children herself).

She took us back into the warehouse and showed the Sprog the big industrial scale they use to weigh donations. He helped her weigh the food we brought, then she weighed the Sprog by himself just for fun (41 lbs., good grief!). After that, we took the bags over to a long table and helped him sort them into the correct boxes (meat, veggies, baby food, grains, etc.) The table was at the far end of the warehouse, which was enormous and absolutely towering with food. Seriously, it looked like Sam’s Club or something.

Rebecca said that God’s Pantry and their affiliated charities distributed over 50 million pounds of food in Kentucky last year. Take that, hunger! They need a lot more help, though—donations are up, but the need for food is outstripping even the increased donations. But the good news is that it’s so easy to give to them and make it count. For every $1 they receive, they can distribute $10 worth of food. Think of that—the Sprog’s $7 will feed a family for a week, thanks to God’s Pantry.

Of course, there are other benefits to giving. It’s a handy smokescreen for misbehavior, for instance. This morning, I caught the Sprog stealthily feeding his breakfast to the new dog. Now, I have been telling him all week not to feed the dog from the table, but this morning he looked at me seriously and said, “But Mommy, I’m not hungry and I don’t want to waste food. That’s really bad.”

I just do not know how to argue with that.

Pet shop boy

We’ve been feeling very doggish lately, so I started doing some casual research online about dogs and which breeds are good for kids. Well, that was stupid, because internet research begets lots and lots of pics of omgcute doggies!!1!, which are a known gateway drug to pet ownership.

So of course, we went to the local Humane Society yesterday to take a look. I wanted a schnoodle because they tend to be smart, obedient, very good with kids, and (I love this) they do not shed. We’re still finding PJ hair in the house five months after his passing, so a non-shedding dog would be a major plus.

No schnoodles there right now, but no problem—there are plenty of other dogs who deserve a good home. But I am determined to make sure and pick the right one this time. I am hopelessly optimistic about animals, in the way that certain women are hopelessly optimistic about their unemployed boyfriend who plays World of Warcraft for 5 hours a day and perfects his beer belching the rest of the time. In short, I’ve been burned after taking home a dog who was not a good fit for my family, and I didn’t want to go through that grief again. So I took my time and walked around, wrote down a list of dogs who looked promising, and went through a vetting process that would put American Idol to shame.

First of all, I brought the kids with me, partially out of necessity, but also because it was useful to see how the dogs reacted to a child (at a safe distance) and vice versa.

Once there, we walked around the kennel room and wrote down the names and cage numbers of likely-looking dogs. Then I quizzed the staff about which of the dogs on my list were known to be friendly with other dogs and/or children, and which ones had issues. Then I got the Sprog to stand in front of their kennels and jump up and down. That was a major trigger for PJ—he would go bananas if someone did that, and I’ve found it’s a useful tool for figuring out a dog’s temperament. Dogs who were mildly interested or happy because they thought it was playtime stayed on the list. Dogs who flipped out, growled, or acted nervous got crossed off.

Also, when I had a dog with me in the play yard, I made sure to tug its ears, neck, and tail a bit (not too hard, but about as hard as a kid would) to make sure they were okay with kids climbing on them. A couple of dogs growled or showed their teeth, so they too got crossed off the list. Other dogs shrugged it off and walked away or were completely indifferent. Those dogs stayed on the list.

I also stuck my fingers in their mouths to see if they’d nip or gnaw. Only a few dogs did (off the list!), but most were appalled at the thought of biting a human. In fact, they looked at me like a food snob who had been offered white wine with red meat. Fingers are totally gauche, I guess.

My favorite dog was the serene little sweetie pie who got all up in Baby Girl’s diaper area and snuffled around, much to the baby’s delight. While laughing, she kicked the dog in the head repeatedly (until I got over there and separated them two seconds later). But here’s the important thing: the dog did not even flinch. She’s a stray, but I’ll bet anything she was raised alongside children.

Finally, while we were out in the play yard, I let the Sprog play with those few dogs who passed all my arcane little tests, though I stayed close by. All passed with flying colors at that point, and the Sprog looked like he was in heaven, running around after the dogs and throwing balls for them to fetch.

So hopefully we’ll be able to go back soon and get a new little dog—I just cannot wait. I admit I was a little overwhelmed at first by just how many dogs there were to choose from at the Humane Society, but I was very impressed with the cleanliness of the place and the friendly, knowledgeable staff and volunteers. Every time I stopped a volunteer to ask about a particular dog, their eyes would light up as they talked about the dog in question; it was really heartening to see how much they obviously care for these poor dogs. At the very least, it made me feel a little better about my painful decision to bring my beloved beagle Molly here four years ago (there were excellent reasons, but it’s too long a story to fit here).

As we were walking back to the car, the Sprog said, “Mommy, thanks for taking me to the Amazing Society!” I almost corrected him, but then I thought, well, close enough.

Do any of you have a “pound puppy” or have any advice about choosing a dog? Any good/bad experience with a particular breed? Share, please!

Taking your lumps

Please go and read Jan Ross’ chilling blog entry here on Bluegrass Moms. She said that she had found a lump in her breast, but thankfully it turned out not to be cancerous. I started reading the entry wanting to puke and finished the entry wanting to wring her neck for scaring me like that. Jan and I have met several times and have enjoyed a long correspondence since before Bluegrass Moms even began, and any of you who have read her blogs know what a wonderful person she is.

But nice people can get cancer. You can get cancer. So pay attention to your body, and heed Jan’s wise words:

If you don’t check your breasts, start. Do it every single day. If you find any irregularity at all, even if it’s not a lump, call your doctor. Immediately.

Because I know you have plans for your life. Just like I do.

I’m calling my doctor today for a mammogram referral. I hope you all do too.