Too busy to blog today…

…because I’m having a blast checking out Bluegrass Moms, our brand new parenting site! It’s got discussion boards, polls, a family-friendly events calendar, brag-worthy cute kid pics, links to parenting resources, and five new blogs from local women who also happen to be great writers. It’s a peck of fun, and I encourage you to click on the link in lemming-like fashion.

When you get there, click on “Register” in the top right and create a profile. It’s not necessary just for browsing the site, but you’ll need to if you want to participate in the discussion boards (no pressure, but there’s a sweet gift card on reserve for the top poster). And don’t worry–your anonymity is as safe as you want it to be. So gripe on the message boards with confidence. ;)

There are still a few bugs that our dedicated computer people are ironing out, so if you see something funky or have general feedback, drop us a line and let us know, okay? And now, having said that, go forth and have fun hanging out with your fellow Central Kentucky moms!

And now, for the still unconvinced, here are a few more good things about Bluegrass Moms: Bluegrass Moms will make you lose 10 lbs., rub your feet, recharge your cell phone, entice your children to eat broccoli, add an hour to the day, clean your floors, run errands for you, compel your college-age kids to call you regularly, and deflect baby puke from your nice shirt.* What’s not to like?

*Fine, so I made all of that up. But Bluegrass Moms is still awesome.

“You look like your dog just died”

I’ve only ever seen something die twice.

The first time, I was eight. It was mid-summer, and I was walking around the side of the house when I heard some commotion in the bushes. I got down on my hands and knees, then on my stomach, and finally found the source of the noise: a wounded robin, tucked way back under the hedge. When it saw me, it went into a frenzy of motion, trying to get away, but one wing dragged in the dirt. The bird finally stopped struggling and regarded me unblinkingly.

I wanted to rescue it, but my dad had told me never to touch a wild animal. I couldn’t have reached it anyway. And I had never been so close to a wild bird before. So I waited and watched, all that long afternoon, my chin on my hands, the freshly cut grass scratching my cheeks.

And after while, something happened. The bird started trying to escape again, though I had made no sudden moves. I hoped it was rested or healed enough to fly away. So I scooted back to give it room to get out, silently rooting it on.

The bird actually did manage to make it out of the hedges on its own power, but its wing was still useless. It was so weak that it was now tipped over on its side, still staring me down with one merciless liquid eye.

Then it shuddered—some kind of final, desperate energy coursing through it. It jerked back up on its feet as if it were a marionette, then spread both wings out—even the injured one—wide, wider, til I thought the tips might touch in the back, poised for a journey I could not track. Then the bird shuddered again and fell over. Its good wing curled up in front of it like burning paper. And that was that.

I didn’t know what to do then, so I went inside and made a peanut butter sandwich. As I ate, I thought about how sudden, how visible its death had been.

Today was nothing like that. PJ lay on the table at the vet’s office, swaddled in warm towels as I petted him and told him he was a good dog, a brave dog. The vet slowly pushed the plunger in on the syringe, and before she was even done, PJ was gone. That quick.

I was so unnerved because I knew exactly when he died, but I couldn’t see that a single thing had changed. The storybooks had it all wrong. No light went out of his eyes. No dullness or film or any of that fictional garbage, at least not right away. He didn’t even sigh. But one second, he was looking at me, and the next second, his eyes happened to be pointed at me. And that was that.

I hate that we had to put PJ to sleep, but I’m so glad he’s not hurting any more. He had been getting worse and worse over the last couple of weeks, but I put off making the call because I hoped so much that the steroids would help him.

But this morning, his legs gave out while he was going to the bathroom. So he just collapsed right there in a puddle of his own urine, too weak to even get up. I cleaned him up and called the vet. He didn’t deserve to live like that. I didn’t want to remember him like that, either.

Here is what I want to think of when I remember him:

One day a few years ago, I was sitting on my bed folding towels. PJ and the Sprog were up there with me because my husband was vacuuming. When he got to the bedroom, PJ immediately sat up, hackles raised, growling at the vacuum cleaner. He was apparently convinced that my husband was planning to sic it on me and knock me off.

So PJ made it very clear to that vacuum cleaner that he was not going to let it get me. Nearer and nearer came the vacuum cleaner. PJ’s growling got louder and louder. Then finally, he just couldn’t restrain himself anymore. He leapt from the bed and went on an all-out frontal assault of the Dirt Devil, biting and scratching at it, barking like he was possessed.

My husband, who was getting a huge kick out of the whole thing, struck a superhero pose and boomed out: “Hahahahahahaha! FOOLISH PUPPY! YOU CANNOT DEFEAT SUCK-OR!”

Snickering, I called PJ back to the bed. He perched at the edge, growling menacingly, ready to strike again if there was any further threat to his mama.

My husband finished vacuuming and, as he wheeled the offending appliance out of the bedroom, he stage-whispered, “You may have won this round, but we will meet again. Oh yes. We will meet again, and then you’ll PAY for your insolence.”

And so help me, PJ snorted disdainfully at the vacuum cleaner and tossed his head, as if to say, “Bring it on, buddy boy.” That dog feared nothing.

PJ, old friend, if there is a heaven for dogs, may you have dominion over all scheming vacuum cleaners. I know you’ll keep ‘em in line.

Keep the political grandstanding away from the girl parts, please

I didn’t even have to look at the calendar to know that election time is coming for many of our fine, hard-working state legislators. Because verily, some of them are gumming up the session with bills that make for great theatre but don’t accomplish a whole lot.

Example one is the HPV vaccine bill, which would require middle school girls to receive the vaccine as a condition of being able to attend public school. I was so glad to read today that it’s stalling in the state House. Update: Nope, it passed. *facepalm*

For one thing, it’s about the weakest, most mealy-mouthed mandate I ever did see. What is the point of passing a mandate that parents can opt out of for any reason whatsoever? Unless, of course, the point is to make the bill’s sponsor (Rep. David Watkins, D-Henderson) look good this November.

For another thing, it’s too expensive, especially right now when state legislators are supposed to be tightening their belts. Aren’t they?

But hey, don’t think I’m just picking on Democrats—Republican State Sen. Jack Westwood, who is also running for reelection this fall, sponsored the totally useless abortion ultrasound bill. Doctors would be required to show ultrasound pictures of the embryo to women seeking an abortion, but the women are free to avert their eyes. Again, pointless mandate. But gee, it sure makes Westwood look Tough On Abortion.

Bottom line: quit wasting my time and tax money on useless bills that serve no purpose but to help an incumbent score points with voters. Do the stumping on your own time and dime, please.

Taxi!

Just popping in to direct you all to my friend Rebekah’s totally crazy birth story. She and her family usually live here, but they’re in Denmark for a year while her husband works on his doctorate.

Even though she was pregnant when they moved there, Rebekah was undaunted—very excited and interested in the way Danes handle childbirth (those are great entries too). So she was rather disappointed when she never got to try out the local birthing center because Baby James decided to be born in a taxicab while they were pulling up to the hospital. But, of course, happy that the little guy is whole and healthy. I think James just didn’t want to watch Veronica Mars anymore. ;)

Speedy Baby James: A Birth Story

Aging like a fine wine

If by “fine wine” you mean the stuff that comes out of a plastic jug and tastes like Robitussin.

Today is my 29th birthday. I want a pony. And 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep. And time to knit/read/hang out with friends/otherwise recreate without resenting how it cuts into the time I could be spending face-down in my pillow. The pony is the most likely option, I’m thinking.

There was a time in my life when finding myself sitting on 30’s doorstep would have sent me into a fugue of Feeling My Mortality, but these days I just don’t have the time to be emo. It does give me pause, though. I suppose I’d better get serious about losing weight, because if I wait too much longer, certain fun fashions will begin to look a little bit ridiculous on me. Assuming, of course, that I suddenly decide to look fashionable. *cackle*

Still…my goodness. I wonder how long it will take me to stop feeling like a kid playing dress-up. The very first time I had this feeling was when I was signing papers at the hospital the day the Sprog was born. Down at the bottom of a form, it said “Parent signature.” And I kid you not, I turned around to look for my mother. Then I realized, No, fool, you’re the parent.

A bit of weirdness: I have very clear memories of my mother when she was 29. She looked like she was 10 feet tall to me, a goddess with all the answers and enough Band-Aids to fix all the scrapes in the world. Such is the power of that early impression that I still have to wonder whether that was just a child’s prejudice or if she really did have it all together (if you knew my mom, you’d know why I’m confused: She’s sickeningly competent at just about everything she attempts).

I wonder what the Sprog sees when he looks at me, what Baby Girl will see when she’s old enough to remember. I’m afraid to hear the answer.

I hope they mostly remember how hard I loved them. That even if the dishes needed washing and the clothes needed ironing, I was neglecting those things so I could have one more light saber duel with the Sprog, spend five more minutes snuggling my girl and smelling the top of her head. Maybe 29 isn’t so bad, if it comes with the right to num on baby toes with impunity.

Love is a four letter word

Usually, I like to go ahead an finish a book before I write the review, but time is short and this book is undeniably awesome.

I’m rushing this post because, as many of you are painfully aware, Valentines Day is today. It occurred to me today that some of you might like a heads up on a book that would make a nifty last-minute gift for a significant other with a literary bent. Or a gift for yourself, at that. Only make sure that, if you give this book to yourself, you include a bottle of good wine. Go ahead, you deserve it.

The book is called Four Letter Word: Invented Correspondence from the Edge of Modern Romance. It’s an anthology of fictional love letters written by some of today’s best authors, such as Margaret Atwood, Ursula K. Le Guin, Jonathan Lethem, Audrey Niffenegger, and Neil Gaiman. And as you might predict from a roster like that, these are not sappy letters, noooooo. Gaiman’s is suitably creepy, Lethem’s predictably weird, and Atwood’s (my favorite) side-splittingly hilarious. And that’s just the start—but I’ll let you read it and see what I mean.

Four Letter Word is such a treat, not just because of the embarrassing amount of talent among the contributors, but because they’ve poured that talent into the powerful format of a love letter. The resulting book would make a fine gift for any occasion.

* * * * *

Oh, and if you are looking for a real mush-fest, I highly recommend Pablo Neruda’s 100 Love Sonnets. Gorgeous, sensual poetry that will knock your socks off.

A bit from one of my favorites:

Sonnet XI

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

(…)

And I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Wooo, pretty hot stuff, no? Mr. Chapman got major, major brownie points when he bought me this book for Valentine’s Day one year.

Discuss: Do you all have a favorite love poem/love song? Let’s have a link, then.

All dogs go to heaven

Brothers and sisters I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
~Rudyard Kipling

There are so many things I wanted to blog about today, but I’m pretty sure my dog is dying, and I just don’t have the heart for anything else right now. PJ has been acting weird all week, and it became apparent Friday night that something was wrong. By Sunday, we realized that he was in a lot of pain; hopefully we’ll know more after my husband takes him to the vet this morning (it was the soonest we could get an appointment). It’s probably age-related, since PJ just turned 12.

On Saturday when I let him out to use the bathroom, he looked at the stairs, looked at me, hung his head in shame, and then peed on the deck. I hate seeing him losing his dignity almost as much as I hate seeing him hurt. He has always been such a brave, manly little dog.

We got him from a breeder who wanted to get out of the business, so her solution was to euthanize the stock so nobody else would breed them and benefit from her hard work. Yeah, I know: really charming. I’m no huge fan of Jack Russells, but I couldn’t stand to let the little guy die. So that’s how we came to be the proud owners of a stout little stud who thinks of my husband as The Other Man.

He’s very protective of me, though. With both of my children, PJ would park himself at the foot of the rocking chair while they nursed/drank formula and would let loose with the most bone-chilling growls if anyone, even my husband, came near me. He wasn’t about to let anyone hurt his mama.

When I took the Sprog with me to D.C. two years ago for my brother’s wedding, my husband was obliged to stay home for a funeral. He said that PJ snubbed him the entire week in every way a dog possibly could. When my husband walked into a room, PJ turned tail and stalked out. He would not sleep on his doggie bed in the bedroom, instead preferring to sleep in the living room. And every time my husband opened the door to let him out, PJ would glare at him as he passed, as if to say, “I know you buried them in a shallow grave in the woods, so don’t even try to deny it. You’d just better pray I never find the bodies, pal.” Then a haughty sniff, and off he went.

So yeah, my dog’s kind of a snot. But I love that about him. And the Sprog loves PJ too—his first word was “dog”, after all. Which made it really hard when I found myself sitting down with the Sprog yesterday to explain to him what was going on.

How do you tell a 3-year-old about death? I hoped I’d be able to find the right words this time, and not perform another spectacular punt like I did on the way to school last month when he started grilling me about where babies came from. I answered him honestly right up until the point where he insisted, “Yes, Mommy, but how does the daddy put the little seed in the mommy?” And then I panicked and said, “Hey LOOK, another Prius!” And that was the end of that. *facepalm* I know. I know. I will remedy this soon. But anyway:

The talk last night went a lot better. I sat down with him and asked him if he had noticed that PJ was feeling sick lately. He nodded. I said that PJ was so sick that he might not get better. If he didn’t get better, I said, then PJ would die. I told him that when PJ died, he would go to sleep, but never wake up again.

The Sprog said, “Then we will take him to the hospital!” So I told him that doctors can’t make PJ better if he’s dead, but that it would be okay because PJ wouldn’t hurt so much anymore after he died. He sighed and picked at the dry skin on his lip.

“When PJ dies, I want to go outside and play so I don’t have to see,” he said.

I promised that he would not have to see that, but also said that it wouldn’t be scary—PJ would just look like he was going to sleep. He nodded, and I asked him if he had any questions.

“Yes, Mom. Can I have a graham cracker?” he said.

*snort* It’s hard to be profound around a preschooler. But we talked for a few more minutes about the prospect of PJ’s death, and the Sprog petted PJ and loved on him gently for a few minutes, just in case he didn’t live through the night.

PJ did live through the night, but he’s not doing any better. He’s currently curled up in his doggie bed next to me, his chin on my foot. He hasn’t eaten much today and has only used the bathroom once.

What’s that old saying? “I wouldn’t take a million bucks for my dog, but I wouldn’t give a plugged nickel for another one just like him.” PJ is clingy, smelly, not terribly smart, obedient only when it’s convenient, compulsively licks people, barks at everything, and he’s not even that cute. But he’s a patient, loyal, lion-hearted little dog if ever one lived, and my heart is just breaking right now. This just plain stinks.

UPDATE: The vet just examined PJ and said he has a massive infection and some kind of back injury. He said that if we make sure he takes all of his meds and keep him very comfortable, he might stick around for a while. I hope you won’t think I’m a total fool if I’m shedding a few happy tears for the little ankle biter.

 

 

Books I’m not allowed to read anymore

It seems that becoming a parent has turned me into a weenie. Well, only in some ways: for my children, I have braved things that always scared me to death before. But when it comes to books and films, there are just some things I will not get near. I used to be able to read anything, watch anything, however gruesome. Was always able to stay philosophical about it (oh well, maybe the zombie really needed that guy’s brains). Then a funny thing happened: I had kids, and all that distance went straight down the toilet.

Everything is different now; paradigm shift is too light a phrase–it’s like someone gave me new eyes and a new heart, but didn’t install them quite right. Parenthood has turned me into the walking wounded.

I got my first inkling of how it was going to be when Ashley Lyons was killed. A terrible story for anyone to hear, obviously: a young woman halfway through her first pregnancy, brutally murdered. I was five months pregnant when that happened, and I could barely bring myself to watch the news reports on TV. It took me months after I gave birth to be able to read or watch the news at all without cringing; I almost quit my job because I didn’t know whether I could handle being in such constant contact with tragedy (more on that in another entry, I think).

I’m okay now, but there are still a few books and movies that I won’t touch with the proverbial 10-foot pole. Here, for your edification (and amusement) is a partial list:

(Cut for probable spoilers and plot details that might creep you out)