Jazzmatazz ~ The story of a beloved dog

So here's the thing. I haven't blogged anything more than promo materiel for about a month. Because what needs to be here next, as far as personal shit, well... frankly just sucks. It's been much easier to think about Jeremiah Quick and do interviews and promo stuff, and I knew the next time I write write about what's going on with me it was going to be a real downer.

Deep breath. The beloved old dog.

(Warning, this is a picture heavy post)

I figure I might as well get it over with now though, considering I feel like crap from THE WORST COLD EVER THAT TURNED OUT TO BE STREP THROAT, and I am missing 32 hours of work. (Holy crap, right?) Yeah. Welcome to the sick house. This is where we live.

I'm avoiding the real issue again, can you tell? Because sickness really isn't interesting enough for a whole paragraph. (sigh).

Okay.

On March 7th, 2014 our beloved old Boxer/Rottweiler (Boxweiler?) of 10.5 years named Jazzmatazz, was a sad pile of misery lying next to the back door, looking at us like, "Um, come on guys, it's time to go."

Her belly looked too big. Her back legs and feet were swollen. Every time she exhaled it ended with a loud sigh, almost, but not quite, a whine.

She'd never been a crying kind of dog. She was a happy-go-lucky creature. Every day. Perky ears, lolling tongue, bright smiling eyes. Happy.

Yeah. It was time to go.

(and yes, here come the tears, damn it)

Jazzy had been battling anemia of an unknown origin for about a month, and a course of prednisone gave her a lot of really decent days. But now. Well. If the prednisone wasn't going to work, nothing much else was going to work, and our wonderful vet agreed that the kindest thing would be to let her go peacefully. Clearly she was hurting. Clearly she was miserable.

We picked up Sprite from school. Sprite is also 10.5 years old. She has grown up with this dog. She laid on top of Jazzy and cried all the way to the vet's office. I did, too. Our vet is kind and compassionate and we sent Jazzy peacefully onto the next leg of her journey. I hope she can run and play and bark madly at squirrels and cats and bask in the sunshine. That's what broke my heart the most - that Jazzy's last days were spent during this cruel and brutal winter. I was hoping she could lie in the grass and enjoy the sun, just a little more.

This is how it starts... my dad calls when my daughter is just a couple weeks old and says, "We had puppies!" (This itty pup isn't "ours" - but a very close rendition)

But here's Jazzy and Sprite, when they were both awfully new. Look at that puppy face! Bashful and proud and nervous all at the same time. We were pretty careful about supervising the large ungainly and clumsy puppy around the baby, so being this close was a novelty, at first. To give Jazzy credit, however, she never not even once in the whole of her life snapped or growled at a child. Not once. Never. She loved children to the end of her days. If she startled her, she moved. If they flopped on top of her, she twitched an ear. If she really wanted them off, she'd just slowly roll out from underneath. No stress, no drama.

My photo files are littered with hundred of pictures of Sprite and Jazzy. I couldn't even count the number of times Sprite would holler, "Mom! Take a picture of me and Jazzy!" There are only a very few from when Sprite was very small (separation of infant and dog, after all) but once Sprite was walking and talking? Endless. This was more than a dog, this was a sister, truly a member of our family.

It didn't take Sprite long at all to realize that Jazzy was very food motivated, and would follow her beloved girl around and pay her lots and lots of attention so long as that girl had a bag of treats.

And lest I forget, let me show you right now what happened every week, on garbage day:

And the day Sprite got her first tiny little bike with training wheels? Well. Let me just tell you that Jazzy was beside herself, running paces along the driveway, and looking truly concerned. Fast-forward about three years, and Sprite's taking OFF on her bike, down the driveway, down the street, without supervision, and let me tell you, that dog was beside herself. She gave me a look that clearly said, "Are you out of your mind?" and barked out the window. Didn't I see what was happening? Our girl was going off down the street ALL BY HERSELF.

Daddy loved the dog, too. In fact, right to the end of her life, Jazzy's favorite place in the whole world was curled up behind Daddy's knees on the couch, her head resting on his thigh. Big sigh, happy dog. In the last week or so of her life, she was not able to get onto the couch, even with help, and honestly? Every one of us was a little bit heartbroken, right then.

The school bus. I don't know if Jazzy could hear it from several blocks away or what, but every day, without fail, she would perk up and jump off the couch to go wait by the window, watching for that bus. She liked it best when the bus driver dropped Sprite off right at the end of the driveway, and liked it least when the bus passed our house and dropped her off at the corner down the street, and Jazzy waited with boxer wiggles and prancing paws for her girl to come into view. Home safe. This was Important.

What is Jazzy waiting for?

THIS:

I will leave you with this last little photo set... what does growing up together look like? It looks like this:

Huh. Above dog might be Jazzy's sister, not Jazzy.

Rest in peace, Jazzmatazz. You are an important member of this family, are well-loved and will be dearly missed for a long, long time. There's never been a better dog.

And now that I'm sobbing, I will say... peace out, darlings. Hug your puppies and your beloved old dogs for me, would you? Because I miss mine.

The Cat

 

Most of the time, the cat seems pretty annoyed about living here.

Perhaps I should backtrack a bit.

In my almost 40 years of life, I have never lived with a cat because I am allergic to them, and there’s nothing comforting about itchy hands, non-stop sneezing, and having the whites of my eyes swell until they are bulging out of my head.

I suffered these issues for weeks after we got “our” cat, and  learned the pleasure of using the vaccuum cleaner thoroughly and often. The good news is that after about 3 months of allergy symptoms, I was able to return to my regular vacuuming schedule. Which is hardly ever.

You might wonder what on earth caused me to put myself through all of this.

Well… for the child, of course.

Other parents might recognize how a child’s intense, life-long yearning for a kitty tugs at one’s heartstrings. “Can I please, please, please have a kitty?” was one of her first sentences.

The plea was incessant, repeated many, many times for YEARS, until finally we needed something really big to bribe her with so she’d behave when we went on a fun vacation without her.

“A-ha!” say all you other parents. “The whys and wherefores become perfectly clear.”

So now we have this cat.

He was the friendliest, most well-adjusted cat at the shelter.

Of course, now I know that was only because he’d been at the shelter for 6 months and was acclimated.

We brought him to our house, and then didn’t see him again for a full 2 weeks. Our friends, some of them cat people, came by to meet our new cat. I was like, “Cat? What cat? I can show you the paperwork that says we paid for a cat, and I can give you a tour that includes a litter box, a food dish, and a scratching post, but trust me, you will not see a cat.”

Little Miss was over the moon with joy, by the way, despite the fact that the cat was basically invisible. Had I known she was begging for an imaginary cat, she could have had one a lot sooner.

Our cat, whose name is Colby (because he’s orange and we live in Wisconsin), camouflaged himself  in the pile of stuffed animals that filled Little Miss’s closet, thereby officially becoming “her” cat purely by choosing to hide in her room.

To visit him, all we had to do was sit on the floor and stick an arm into the pile and feel for the warm spot. A rumbling purr would let us know that we were on the mark.

Oh yes, he purrs madly.

I’d like to say that he's became a well-adjusted family pet, but that would be exaggerating. The truth is more that we've modified our behavior to make this an acceptable home for our cat.

Colby faces many challenges here at our house.

We have a large dog, named Jazz, who, from Colby's point of view, probably seems intent upon eating him, but really just wants to lick him. And sniff his butt.

Colby is also reguarly exposed to an overabundance of affection from a happy little girl.

I can picture him shuddering even as I write that sentence.

I recently read a book called Mindblind, written from the point of view of a 14 year old boy who has Asperger’s Syndrome. I will explain where I'm going with this, but just want to state up front that I'm making fun of cats, not people with Asperger's.

I recognized my cat in the book. His inability to read social cues, the way a hug makes him positively squirm. His insistence upon predictibility -- "Um, hello you. Yes, you, the bringer of the food. It's ten at night. Food time. And bedtime. And you must pet me until I fall asleep. Let's go. Do you see what time it is? It's ten. At night. Food time."

He hates change, and he doesn't cope well with noise or erratic activity. Giggling, screaming little girls make him hide in the closet. Actually, the presence of anyone in the house other than the three people who live here will send him racing into the closet. Three people might even be one too many. If my husband touches Colby, Colby immediately starts washing himself. It's so blatent that it actually looks like an insult.

But don’t get me wrong, he likes human contact and solicits our attention. He just likes things to be a certain way. He wants to be stroked from the tip of his head to tip of his tail, in one long, smooth motion. Repeat. And then he purrs.

So long as we behave in an acceptable manner, he consents to keep living here. And for some reason that makes us feel special.

The Johnson Christmas newsletter

In the spirit of the season, I thought I'd catch anyone who is interested up on the doings at our house.

Our little Miss has become quite the little actress. She's been in a couple of different plays this year, including a stellar performance this week at the Douglas County Humane Society. Oh, wait, I mean the Douglas County Historical Society. The stellar performance at the Humane Society was a whole different sort of drama. She continues to work with her 2nd grade teacher on her behavior management plan, and has had many good days this fall.

Dave continues to be a workaholic. We do see him a few times a week for an hour or two before bedtime, and Sheri has discovered that a home-cooked meal will bring him home right quick and at supper time, even. Unfortunately Sheri hates cooking, and only does it a few times a month, because, ultimately, she's too busy making up stories and lies to do the whole domestic goddess thing.

Jazz the dog continuously amazes us with her ability to regurgitate things she should not have eaten in the first place. This skill has saved her life at least twice this year, once when she ate a large bag of chocolate, and again when she snacked on some liquid drain cleaner. And it also seems that no matter where we hide the butter, she always finds it. Such a nose she has!

We have a new addition to the family this year. His name is Colby and he is an orange tabby cat. Colby came with a regurgitation feature similar to that of the dog, only his system is a lot more sensitive, because he regurgitates just about everything he eats. He also came to us with a very sensitive bladder, and has spent some expensive days in the hospital.

So that's the news from here. We've had no unexpected pregnancies or major animal surgeries this year, and we have not yet received the gift of lice from the elementry school. We count our blessings.

PS. Should anyone think about dropping by unannounced, I urge you to call ahead. I have recently been suffering from these weird hot flashes that have me stripping off my clothes without advance warning.

Peace homies.

Still Gen-X, and still parenting.

Hard to believe, I know.

Contrary to popular belief, almost seven year old girls still need parenting. I know. It stinks. You'd think we'd be done with all this by now, have her set up in her own apartment, and so on and so forth.

But no. There are laws and things that suggest no matter how grown up a child THINKS she is, it is still illegal to leave them to their own devices for extended periods of time. Like while we're at work.

So the battle continues. Some days are better than others. Living with a miniature pseudo-adult isn't always the easiest task. She disdains bedtime, places very specific orders for her meals, and basically acts as if she is the Queen and we are the lowly servants. She hates brushing her hair, but insists upon looking adorable. Autocratic, demanding, disrespectful, and waaaaaay too big for her girls' size 8 britches. Trust you me.

I've seen her with my own two eyes demonstrate beautiful manners. Please and thank you and even "no thank you, it's not to my taste." I've heard rave reviews of her behavior when she's been away visiting people who didn't have anything to do with her conception.

But that's an anomaly around here. Where did we go wrong? Was it when we let her sleep in our bed in infancy? Was it nursing her on demand? Rocking her to sleep while singing lullabies? Is it the complete array of Disney programming available 24/7 that's only suitable for sarcastic teenagers? Ah-ha! By jove, I think we've got it!

Where is imagination? Where is childhood? Where does this propensity toward boredom on long hot afternoons come from? Bored? Seriously? Okay, let's go load up the truck and bring all those enormously-expensive-but-not-worth-a-fraction-of-what-they-cost plastic toys to someone else's house. Because I'm tired of tripping over them while they collect dust around here.

Noooo? You're saying no? Alrighty then. Turn off the television, turn on your brain, and go PLAY. Be a kid. And don't drag me into it, either, because do I look like a kid?

Truth be told, almost seven is a lovely age. Almost seven can choose clothing off the rack, try it on, and drop it in the cart. "This one fits, Mom." Almost seven goes to church and reports, "When people do bad things, it makes God cry." (Heh-heh, ammunition!) Almost seven loses her first tooth and runs around like a small, crazy person who's just won the lottery. (How come she never gets that excited when I offer her a dollar?) Almost seven can kick my butt at the game Up Words, and spell the word S-E-X while giving me a sideways look and explaining, "It's a word, Mom. And it's not a swear word, it's a love word." (Do I hear myself being parroted back at me? Oh yes, I do.)

Summer is tricky for the parent trying to rewrite a novel. So far there's been ½ day summer school, ½ day acting camp, ½ day supervised playground including swimming and arts and crafts (thank the powers that be for that one), A full week of day camp (all day – bless the stars). We're heading into a two week void, but somehow we'll persevere. Then two more weeks of Y camp, soccer practice and games, and then, thank my happy stars, SCHOOL. Second grade.

Next year she'll be able to read my personal, private text messages even BETTER.

So long as she stays away from my novels. Because I'm not ready to answer those questions. Ever.

Soccer mom... who, me?

06.01.09

The last thing, and I mean the very LAST thing, I ever aspired to be was a soccer mom. I mean, we're talking sports here. Sports are not in my life. Not even on my TV. I don't know the rules, and I don't care to. Just one more place to be, one more set of specialized clothing to argue about. Seriously. We did swimming lessons until she learned to float and doggy paddle, and then the aggravation of getting undressed, suited, unsuited, showered, and dressed again far outweighed any further benefits of more lessons. After all, to swim a child needs to be breathing, and one more locker room battle might well have negated that important factor.

But Little Miss, as always, has her own reasons and her own arguments about things. She wanted to be part of a TEAM. "There's no I in team, Mom. Don't you think I need to learn how to be part of a team?"

Where does she come up with this stuff? Some days I swear I live with a miniature, humanized version of a Public Service Announcement. Hell, just today she extolled the many virtues of the Nicotine patch, including that it has the ability to prevent irritability.

Anyway. Back to soccer.

I had a game plan for dealing with soccer practice, and, potentially, soccer games. It included a beach blanket, a novel, and a large cup of coffee. I suppose my plan involved weather, but who in their right mind would think a thing called spring soccer would involve temperatures of 33 degrees above zero? I mean, come on.

I received an email from the Y asking me to consider being a coach, "after all," it said, "you and your husband have coached other sports in the past."

BWAHAHAHAHA. I'm sure that person's heart is in the right place, but their email address book is obviously a disorganized mess.

I showed up to soccer practice with my blankie, my coffee, and my book. And about two and half minutes after being settled on the ground, it was brought to my attention that OUR team would be a parental-involvement thing.

Wh-what? I have to put down my coffee, abandon my blanket, and play monster tag? With a soccer ball? Who came up with this terrible idea? I'm OLD. I can't steal a soccer ball from an almost six year old - she's about a hundred times faster than I am. There's a reason I sign her up for stuff - because she never gets tired. And I need a break. Awww, man, I gave up sitting on the bleachers talking to other moms at gymnastics for THIS?

It was a sad day. And even worse the moment that my daughter ran out of her shoes, collapsed on the ground, and I was forced to leap, tuck, and roll to avoid crushing her into the dirt. After drinking approximately 32 oz. of coffee. Don't tell anyone, but I wet myself just a little.

And it was cold. Did I mention it was 33 degrees? That's almost snowing around here. And why does needing desperately to pee make you feel even colder? What is UP with that?

Okay, it was a hard lesson, but I learned not to drink (too much) coffee before soccer practice, and to leave my book and blanket at home.

On to what I learned about soccer games.

Initially, 5 year olds have no idea what "offense" or "defense" means until you teach them. And if you forget, after you've taught them, and use other terms like, "protect the goalie" or "get the ball" they have no idea what you're talking about.

Soccer games go on, outside, during that last May snowfall, even when the 65 mph wind is blowing the ball around the field. Under these conditions, not even blankets and long johns can keep you warm.

But guess what? Yelling helps. Actually, yelling helps a lot.

Little Miss ASKED me to cheer for her. And I did, I swear. I yelled, "Go, Little Miss, go!"

And it's possible that I yelled other things.

"Get the ball! Get the ball! Hey, you're defense now, pay attention! Watch the ball! Stop spanking the goalie and WATCH THE BALL. Here comes the ball! Get it out of there! No, not that way! The other way! Go the other way!"

It's possible, but my memory isn't what it used to be.

What I know is this: during cuddle time a new request was made. "Mom, don't yell so much at soccer games, because it confuses me."

And I am flabbergasted, because I'm such a shy, quiet, genteel person in a mixed group. Where did psycho soccer mom come from? And is there a closet I can stuff her into?

Published author? Yay!

My first novel, DeVante's Children, will be available as an e-book from Torquere Press February 11 2009.

I am so excited!

It's been a long journey from writing those first chapters to this day.

Writing a novel is tough, and despite that fact that Stephanie Meyer wrote, was solicited by an agent, and published Twilight in 6 months, it's typically not that simple.

Of course, writing fiction for publication is a losing battle - the most beautiful stories are the ones we tell ourselves, the ones we write because we just can't help doing it.

So look for me in February!

DeVante's Children

Gay people are perverts… at least in the minds of Daniel’s dad and step-mother. They didn’t want him around his younger half-sister so they kicked him out of the house. And even though Daniel knew they were being unreasonable, he had plenty of questions about being gay himself. Then he became enthralled by Roderick, ran away from his hometown, and discovered there are stranger things in the world than men who love men.

He didn’t know his first lover was a vampire until Roderick attacked him with such cruelty there could be no other explanation. Roderick insisted that he loved Daniel, but still wouldn’t change him, and Daniel learned his first lesson as an adult; where there is love there can also be pain.

Enter DeVante, Roderick’s creator. He is furious because his personal code of ethics doesn’t allow enslaving mortals for either love or blood. Roderick’s vampire blood is poison to Daniel’s humanity, and Daniel needs to be changed soon or he will die.

When Daniel’s half-sister gets kidnapped, he enlists the talents of his new blood-drinking friends to find her. When he brings her home he expects to become the family hero; instead he’s arrested and charged with the kidnapping. Sometimes you really can’t go home again.

Now Daniel must figure out who he is, what he wants, and if he’s willing to sacrifice another human life to ensure his own survival.

Torquere Press: http://www.torquerepress.com

Sountrack of her life

02.18.08

Ode To My Daughter

 

I have a girl child.

She makes me tired.

The end.

 

It is unbelievable how one small being can turn a household upside down upon its right ear.  Who would have ever imagined? Ach, but she’s loud. That’s maybe the number one thing I want you, my readers, to understand throughout the next few paragraphs. My child is boisterous and impish and exceptionally loud all the time. Loud when she’s happy. Loud when she’s unhappy.  The days of peace are… well, I was going to say few and far between, but really, what days of peace? 

 

Here is the soundtrack of my daughter’s life at this moment in time: “Stop climbing on the lamp and get your jacket on, stop waggling that sassy butt at me, because I’ll spank it, I will, I’m not kidding, stop kicking me and let me get your boots on, stop talking to me in that sassy voice, get out of there, leave my things alone, hey, that’s MINE, put the scissors down because we have to go, c’mon, now, get your jacket on, no, leave the scissors alone and get your jacket on, get your boots – no, your jacket, wait… aarrrrrgggghhhhhh!”

 

That’s before we ever leave the house.

 

Then at the grocery store it sounds like this:  “No, we don’t need the little kid cart, last time you nearly broke someone’s ankle with it, I said no little cart, no, no, are you listening to me?  I said no. We’re not buying Kool-aid, we’re never buying Kool-aid, no, we’re not buying it next time and we’re not buying it for next summer, do you know what’s in that stuff? Get over here. Get. Over. Here. Watch out for that cart, don’t get run over, get out of the way, get over here, not those cookies, they cost $6. Yes, apples are fine, pick out some apples, all right, fine, I’ll pick out the apples, what, watermelon?  Ok, yes, you can have watermelon, no, not right this minute, we have to cut it up at home, no you can’t eat the bulk candy, no, I said no, and you didn’t eat the bananas the last time we bought them so we’re not buying any today, we have apples and watermelon, we’re good on fruit… yes, we need an onion, oh for god’s sake, stop screaming, I’m not going to make you eat it, I know you don’t like it but there are other people in this family who eat, you know. Yes, you can pick out the ice cream, yes, you can have one cupcake but you can’t eat it until after dinner. After dinner. No, not before dinner, after dinner.  I don’t care that you haven’t had a snack, you’re not eating a cupcake before dinner. No, you don’t need a candy bar, you have a cupcake, yes, I know you can’t eat the cupcake until after dinner, but you won’t be able to eat a candy bar until after dinner either, no, you can’t have a candy bar, you’re getting a cupcake…aaaarrrrrrgggggghhhhhhh!”

 

 “Get in the truck. Just get in the truck. Wait, there’s a car coming, okay, now get in the truck, don’t yank my ponytail out while I’m buckling your seat belt, I said don’t, when I say don’t what I mean is Do. Not. Do. That. I’m not crabby, you’re driving me crazy, can you stop talking for 5 minutes? Stop talking. Shhhhh. If we play the Quiet Game will you please stop talking? I can’t turn the radio down because you won’t stop talking and I’m losing my mind. What? How do babies get out of their mommies tummies? Oh good lord, I’m not prepared for this. Do we have to talk about this now, because I swearwe were playing the Quiet Game. Well, ok, the doctor helps them out. No, I can’t explain any more than that because it’s kind of involved, involved means it’s a long story. Oh thank god we’re home. No, you can’t have that cupcake until after dinner. No, after dinner.”

 

It continues, but I just can’t.  I’m exhausted from recreating one snippet of one day. Her eyes sparkle with merriment, her quest for knowledge (as well as for her own way) knows no boundaries. She is infused with joy and intensity from morning until night. I love her madly, laugh at her frequently, and most assuredly cannot remember life before her.

 

Can't stop laughing

02.12.08

My 4 year old said something today that has me dissolving into giggles every time I hit the rewind button in my mind.  I even started shaking with laughter during cuddle time, which is quiet, low key, relax the child into sleep time, but remembering her exact words cracked me up all over again.

 

 I had no idea I was raising a proper little DFL-er, and the moment was just hysterical.

 On the way to McDonald’s Playland, my daughter announces that she has to "go really, really bad."

 

We had left the house, gone to the gas station, and gone back to the house, all within the last 10 minutes, but she only realized she has to "go really, really bad" once we got on the bridge that carries us from one state to another across a lot of water.

 

Daddy's shop is the next closest bathroom.  Her opinion of stopping at the shop to go potty is something like this... "I don't like the bathroom at Daddy's shop.  I only like the office.  And the workers."

 

I park next to a tow truck that has my husband’s name and logo across the door.

 

My little girl calls out, "That's my daddy," in a song-song voice, and then adds, in a public service announcement type of monotone, "Dave's Towing, where the workers come first."

 

I died.  I laughed so hard I was having bladder spasms myself.  I was still laughing as we walked into the shop.  Where on earth did she hear such a thing?  Wait, I mean, not that the guys (and the secretary) aren’t appreciated.  They work hard, and being on call 24/7 is not exactly a joy.  I know from experience that the phone can be quiet right up until the minute you sit down at a restaurant and order food.  Then DPD needs you in 20 minutes or less.

 

Of course, compared to the boss in the book I’m reading (The Devil Wears Prada, by Lauren Weisberger) my husband is a jewel of a boss.  Uh-huh.  I’m sure that’s what the workers were thinking when they hired my 4 year old to organize their union.  This has something to do with last week’s staff meeting, right? 

 

As we head to the bathroom one of those prize workers calls out, "You don't want to go in there right now."

 

Oops, there I go giggling again.  The daughter is finally tired of not getting the joke, and says, “Why are you laughing, Mom?” and that almost makes it worse.  We’re both going to wet ourselves. 

 

“Where did you hear ‘the workers come first’?” I ask her.  Usually I have a pretty good clue where she picks this stuff up, but this time I was clueless.  I can’t imagine that she’s somehow gotten involved with the Teamsters.

 

“From Dr. Suzi,” she says, “Only she says ‘where the patients come first.’  I changed it.”

 

Flash back to this morning when she said, “Kiss my ring,” – I think that was a Rugrats episode, as well.  Whew.  I thought she’d been watching something wildly inappropriate.  Remembering how just yesterday she asked, “Mom, are gown up shows on all night?” which gave me a panic moment of wondering exactly what late-night channel she might have caught a glimpse of. 

 

It’s funny how you like to think you know everything they are exposed to and exactly what goes on in their little heads.  But as they get older and learn more you lose track of what they know.   And eventually you realize that you probably will never know what goes on inside their heads.  For now, she’s perfectly happy to tell me, thank goodness, because otherwise I’d be perpetually confused.  And I imagine there will come a time (about ten years from now) when she won’t share what she’s thinking quite so easily.  But I hope not. 

 

I suppose my chances will be better if I figure out how to stop laughing, but she’s so funny I’m not sure I’ll ever manage it.  Among all the challenges of being a mom there certainly are some powerful gems.  The gift of supreme amusement and laughter not the least of them.

 

Sometimes laughter really is the best medicine.

 

Dinosaur Logic

01.18.08

She says, “Mom, I can’t go to sleep because I’m scared.”

 

I’m more aggravated than sympathetic, because this just has the feel of a ploy to stay up past bedtime.  Or at least to get me to snuggle in her bed for awhile longer, even though the alarm signaling the end of cuddle time just went off.   “What are you afraid of?”

 

“Bears and dragons and dinosaurs.”

 

Well, okay, I’m thinking this is easy enough to fix.  “It’s winter time and all the bears are hibernating.”

 

“Every one of them?” she asks.

 

“Every one.  So there’s no reason to be afraid of bears.  And there’s no reason to be afraid of dragons because dragons aren’t real.”

 

“But dinosaurs are real!” she exclaims.

 

“Ah, well, dinosaurs used to be real.  But dinosaurs are extinct, which means they all died long, long before there were ever people on the earth.  God made the dinosaurs first, and then they all died, and maybe God thought people were a better idea.”

 

“But Mom, how come dinosaurs and people never lived on earth together?”

 

“Because the dinosaurs would have eaten all the people, and God wanted people to live on the earth for thousands and thousands of years.”

 

“But Papa didn’t.”

 

“Didn’t what?” I retrace my words in my head trying to figure out what she’s telling me.  It’s funny how we get to know our children so well that we can do that, isn’t it?  Like she’ll start telling me a story that started silently in her head a few sentences back, and after a couple more sentences I’ll have caught on to her logic, or realized what movie she’s talking about.  We have conversations that would sound so random to a passerby they might think we’re speaking in code.

 

So after rethinking how I’d just explained God and people and dinosaurs, I figured it out.  “No, Papa didn’t live for thousands of years.  Maybe God needed Papa more than we did.”

 

“But we need our Papa!”  She’s very definite on this point. 

 

I had no idea my dinosaur explanation would lead to a discussion on why people have to die.  But I’ve been expecting these questions, so I’ve had some time to think of answers.  And I know my daughter will never settle for just one answer.  “I guess we had our turn with Papa and now it’s God’s turn.”  That sounds pretty good – she does a lot of taking turns in preschool.

 

“Do we get another turn?”

 

I was doing fairly well until this point, but the answer to this question slays me.   I feel that squeezing cringe in my nose and behind my eyes, and here comes the sniffles.  “No,” I tell her, hardly able to speak, “we don’t.”

 

“That’s not fair!” she says in her angry little girl voice.

 

I have to agree.  It doesn’t feel fair, not one little bit.  I’m not talking anymore because trying not to sob out loud.  Partly I’m crying for me, and I know that.  But mostly I’m crying for her.  I have thirty-six years of memories of my father in my head.  Thirty-six years of lessons in right and wrong and honesty and dignity and humor and goodness.  She only has four.  How much will she remember for herself?

 

And then I think of my nieces and how they got less time with my dad than I did.  And my great niece.  She lost her great-grandpa who she knew and loved -  how do you explain that to a  two year old?   I cry some more.

 

And my mom, oh, my mom, who’s lived every marriage vow written.  Who’s been strong, and scared, and sad, and hopeful and everything in between.  She’s been his nurse and his cheerleader, his sweetheart, and his partner.  And here she is, cut loose to find a new life.  It surely isn’t fair.

 

I’m really on a crying roll now.

 

But then I realize that we’re lucky, in a way.  My dad was only one half of a great set of parents.  We still have one half of greatness here on earth to love.  I feel a little better when I remind myself of that.

 

Now that my crying jag is under control, I still need to get my daughter to sleep. “Hey,” I tell her, “we’ll get another turn when we see Papa in Heaven, okay?  And we’ll see Grandma tomorrow, so that’s all right.”

 

She was still awake a few minutes later when I was talking to my mom on the phone.  One “good-night, sleep tight” from Grandma, and she snuggled right in.

 

Yeah, we’ll be okay.

Requiem for my father

12.25.07

When I was a little girl, my daddy was a fireman.  I felt so proud that my daddy had such an important job.  Other kids were in awe of firefighters, and trucks, and hats, and fire stations – and I was a kid who visited the firehouse regularly.  My dad showed me all the equipment, let me check out the inside of the truck, and pointed way, way, way up in the hose closet so I could see the hoses hanging to dry.  They looked like huge jungle pythons to me.  I think he loved his job, because I can’t think of a single instance that he ever complained about it.

 

How do you explain to a 4 year old at Christmas time that her Papa is dying?  She has waited so long for Christmas.  She loved decorating the tree and played for hours with the figures in the nativity scene.  She begged for pretty lights outside our house like on the houses we drive past every day. 

 

She understands dying, kind of.  Well, at least in the sense that the goldfish that no longer swam or breathed was fun to flush down the toilet.  She has a vague concept of Heaven, and God, but not a very clear idea.  In that respect she’s like a lot of people.  She understands that we’re sad about Papa being sick, and that these days Mommy cries an awful lot.  “I’m not worried about Papa,” she told me, “4 year olds don’t worry about things.”

 

I wasn’t worried about Papa, either.  If you knew my father you understand, and if you didn’t know him… ah, well, mere words will never do him justice.  He was a man of honor, and dignity, and humor, with a concrete sense of right and wrong.  During this sad time of good-byes, my brother told me, “I could call him about anything and he always had the answers.”  No kidding, I thought, how much easier our lives might have been if we had understood that when we were younger.

 

As my brother and I grew up and made mistakes, our father bailed us out from time to time.  But the help wasn’t offered, it was something we had to ask for.  It dashed our pride a little bit to ask, because we were raised to believe that grown-ups are expected to take care of themselves.  And yet… there was the safety net, only one request away. 

 

He was the kind of man to whom you apply the words, “fine” and “upstanding” without hesitation.  He would regularly wash my mom’s car, and then top off her gas tank so she’d never run low.  He always knew where to get the best deal on anything.  When I was 13 he took me to a Motley Crue concert because I was too young to go with friends.  Talk about self-sacrifice!

 

He was the man you could say anything to, talk to about anything, spark a rousing debate, and then agree to disagree.  We didn’t have to worry about reconciliation or apologies here at the end.  We didn’t have unresolved personal issues.  We loved him and he loved us, without reservation.

 

Let it be a tribute to Solvay Hospice House that my busy, often high-energy, little girl loved it there.  Something about the environment calmed her immensely, and gave her amazingly good control over her behavior.  I spent a lot of time with my dad during his last days, and my daughter did, too.  The last time my little girl saw him, my dad raised his hand and said, “Gimme five,” and she did.  How’s that for a fabulous goodbye?

 

My goodbye was a bit more emotional.  I told him I was so sad he had to go, and that I would miss him so much, and he said he was so sad to leave us.  But he knew he was going to a wonderful place, a place without pain or suffering or cancer. 

 

And my daddy died the way he lived, with honor, with dignity, and without fear.

 

The Force

12.09.07

Sometimes I feel sorry for the world, for the force I have unleashed upon it.

Who knew?

 

Who knew that I would create a creature of such monstrous determination, such whirling, stomping, dancing, leaping, forward momentum that heaven help anyone or anything that blocks her path?

 

Take grocery shopping, for instance.  Simple enough, we need food, we go to the food store to get some.  It’s a fairly regular occurrence, and one that generally holds no real surprises.

 

I have no idea why it went so badly last time.  I had a list.  Usually, “Whoops, that’s not on the list,” works like a charm.  It’s a neutral third party.  It’s clear cut – it’s not on the list, therefore we aren’t buying it.  Simple.

 

The list works because I let her brainstorm with me what to put on it.  Oreos?  Hmm, well, we haven’t had Oreos for a while, so sure.  Let’s put Oreos on the list.  Microwave popcorn?  Mmm, yup, it goes on the list.  Apples?  No problem.  Apples are on the list.  Macaroni & Cheese – hell yeah, that’s on the list in four different varieties. 

 

Over-priced watermelon - not on the list.  Chocolate oranges – the fancy ones you bang on the counter that split into neat little slices of chocolate with a hint of orange flavor – not on the list.  No, not on the list.  No, that doesn’t mean scream for grandma and see if she’ll put it on her list, it means, “NO, it’s NOT on the list and we are NOT buying it.”

 

When my daughter is not happy she is not quiet about it.  Especially when she can run from mom to grandma and back not being happy. 

 

You know how at the grocery store you tend to sort of browse the same aisles with the same people?  You meet up in produce or juice, and sort of keep passing and saying excuse me to the same few people pretty much the whole time you’re in the store.  Well, by aisle 8 I was feeling pretty sorry for those people.

 

By the time we reached the meat department and I said “excuse me” to those same people for the 64859628th time since I aisle 1, I was fried.  Ok, fine, we’re just going to check out and wait for grandma in the truck.  I studied the check-out lines.  Could I wait, check-out, bag my groceries, AND leave the store with a living, breathing heathen? 

 

No.  I could not.

 

The whole way out to the truck I’m thinking, is it too much to ask to want to buy FOOD?  I mean, really.  Bless the Salvation Army bell-ringer who wished us a Happy Holiday and tried to get my daughter to smile.  My daughter who was freaking out because there was a stuffed animal in the abandoned cart. Screaming, crying, twisting, feet-dragging kind of freaking out.

 

Now I ask you why are there stuffed animals at the grocery store?  Do we poor benighted parents not have enough objects of desire to navigate in our retail lives as it is?  The grocery store used to be a fairly safe zone – huge bags of M&M’s (not on the list), one aisle of cookies (easily avoided), and cheap happy child-lottery machines lined up in a row at the end.  Except that suddenly there are stuffed animals in aisle 1.  Thanks a lot. 

 

Anyway.  We went to the truck, where we had an attitude adjustment.  Promises were made and deals were struck, and we decided perhaps we could retrieve the abandoned cart, grab some milk, and survive the check-out line.

 

I like to think that my quiet, snuffling, well-behaved child received some smirks or at least wan smiles from the people we’d completely annoyed throughout half of the grocery store, the ones who were no doubt thinking, if that were my kid we’d be going outside for an attitude adjustment.  But no, we’d lost our place and made our selections amid a new group of co-shoppers, shoppers who probably thought Mommy is a big meanie.  Especially the grandmotherly woman my daughter was talking to while I was picking out cheese.  The part of the conversation I overheard was in regards to the recent attitude adjustment, and it would not get me nominated for mommy of the year.

 

She is a force, I tell you.  I cannot imagine what sort of an adult she will be, but I expect her to be a mover and a shaker.  I used to think she’d be a movie-star, based on her penchant for drama, but these days I’m thinking more along the lines of director or producer.  More than anything she loves to be the boss.  Demands to be the boss.  The boss with a voice that will be heard.  And by golly, if she’s not happy, you will hear it. 

 

The world has my sympathy, but hopefully by the time the world has to contend with her, my job will be done.  And if the world comes knocking at my door, I’ll just give a toast with my martini glass and say, “May the Force be with you, because heaven knows you’ll never win if it’s against you.”

Musing the muse

11.25.07

Five and a half days and 14,700 words to go.  I want to reach 50,000 words by the end of the month.  I really do.  Now, there’s no way my story will be told in 50,000 words, and I recognize that.  My characters are seeming like real people, with jobs, and histories, and speech impediments.  But all the ways they are interconnected and the means with which they will resolve their issues remain a mystery – even to me. 

 

Floating around my head are the scene-by-scene bits and pieces, the “today everybody’s in the psych unit, but where will they be tomorrow?” kind of stuff.  Baby steps that get my people together and get them moving in the direction of the big finish.

 

I don’t have a clue as to what that big finish is yet.

 

Meanwhile.  Life intervenes.  Children need baths, everybody needs clean clothes, there’s a Thanksgiving meal to cook, and a house to clean up so we can welcome guests.  There are friends to see, and a job to go to, a column to write, and sniffles, coughs, cramps and aches.  Carpel Tunnel flares up and it’s hard for me to lift anything heavier than a full coffee mug (thank the stars I can still lift a full coffee mug).  And I dream of making a living at this? 

 

Yes.  Yes I do.  And this is why…

 

Because there comes a point around page 100 where the story I’m telling ceases to be my own, and begins to belong to the characters.  I am just a vessel now, the not-so-arrogant creator who’s only true responsibility is to make sure the sentences hit the page in the right order while making some kind of sense.  My job is to write without using the word “really” in every sentence.

 

Did I know that Olivia had twin daughters who died shortly after their birth?  No, I did not.  Olivia told Jaxx every detail and I cried my eyes out while transcribing the conversation.  The control-freak in my head was screaming, “What?  Where did this come from?  This background makes Olivia important to the novel, but you can’t introduce someone important on page 100, are you crazy?”

 

That night I went to bed stunned and emotionally exhausted.  As I fell asleep… I realized that Jaxx’s boyfriend was the father of those twins, the boy-villain in Olivia’s story who was unable to step up to the plate and be a man in the face of tragedy.  How does a teen-ager who runs away when he’s needed most become a man who, ten years later, embraces life to the fullest with a “no regrets” policy?

 

Well.  All will eventually be revealed.

 

Because that’s what my writer’s brain does.  It holds all characters in the subconscious, turning them this way and that, examining emotion, motivation, and human nature.  It adds more and more dimension to each person, and each story problem, until clarity bursts forth with all the subtly of fireworks. 

 

And there am I, the vessel, the center of everything, God of the world I have created.  I am ready to sit back and watch the events unfold.

 

Except my child is begging me to play with her.  My husband is lamenting the pile of whites that is growing ever larger next to the washing machine.  The dog is whining at the door because all the other dogs in the neighborhood get to go for walks.  I am scheduled to work 4 of the next 5 and a half days. 

 

The Muse will have to wait.  It will sit and stew on what’s supposed to happen next.  It will reveal itself in brilliant flashes of brilliant dialogue while I’m driving the car, and will disappear by the time I have paper and pen in hand. 

 

Sometimes I will sit and type words that don’t seem to be going anywhere. I will write less-than-brilliant dialogue as I search my memory in vain for those sneaky flashes of good stuff.  None of that is the Muse, however; that all happens when I pretend I’m showing up to write but all I really want to do is browse the internet.

 

NaNoWriMo: 50,000 Words or Bust will have at least given me a 50,000 word head-start on a new story.  Fortunately for me, the Muse will keep the story going all by itself until I show up at the keyboard ready to type.  I will discover a detail that has to be added to an early chapter so that a later chapter makes sense.  My characters will infiltrate my waking hours, and run around doing mad things in my dreams.  They will love each other and I will love them.  And that’s really all that matters.  Really.

 

Suspicion

11.12.07

As I sit down to write this, the dog is grounded to Outside.  I don’t know when she can come back in.  I just have to wonder… why is everybody around here so darn naughty?

 

I had a lovely “girls’ night in” last weekend.  One friend brought pizza.  One brought chocolate.  Dark chocolate.  Ghiradelli chocolate.  With raspberry.  We hauled our winter scrap-booking projects out and worked and gabbed the night away. 

 

What remains is chocolate.  Two bowls on my dining room table filled with rich, dark, sensual chocolate.

 

Except that all of a sudden I realize the bowls are empty.  The table cloth is torn and scratched.  And the dog is acting down-right psychotic.

 

Oh no.

 

Did I hear somewhere that chocolate is fatal to dogs?  Hmm.  That would be two problems solved – waistline and constant aggravation.  Whoops, did I say that out loud?  Nah, no matter how aggravating the dog is, my child’s devastation would be worse to deal with.  At least I think it would be, although… she didn’t have any issues with flushing the goldfish…

 

Anyway.  Before I got distracted by the Case of the Missing Chocolate I was going to talk about counting bears.

 

Funny how you can tell there’s something up with your kid even though you can’t nail down exactly why you think there’s something up.  Is it body language?  Facial expression?  That creepy sixth sense that mothers just seem to have?

 

A few days ago when I picked my daughter up from school I could tell there was something going on.  Maybe it was the way she peeked into her jacket pocket and then wanted to go home immediately.  This, the child who never wants to go home.

 

“Hey, what’s your hurry today, Miss?”

 

“Nothing.  I don’t have nothing.”

 

Uh-huh.  Okay, I’ll bite.  “What do you have?”

 

“Nothing.  I didn’t find nothing.”

 

“What did you find?”

 

"It’s a secret."

 

I’m definitely intrigued now.  Last year when she didn’t have anything, I found 20 plastic character rings in her backpack.  The kind you might find on the top of cupcakes.  My daughter insisted she “found” them.  When I asked the teacher if my child should have so many rings, she cracked up.  All the kids had been looking for their rings all day long.  “But I found them, Mom.  I did.”  Upon further questioning it was determined that whenever another child set their ring down somewhere, MY child scooped it up and tucked it into her backpack.  Finders keepers and all that.

 

This time her secret was a tiny red plastic teddy bear.  Small enough to easily enclose in her fist.  “Can I take it home, Mommy?”

 

“I don’t know,” I said, “Let’s show it to the afternoon teacher and you can ask her.”

 

The afternoon teacher shrugged.  She didn’t know where it came from.  It was okay for my girl to take it home.

 

But the mystery of the bear grew a little more at home.  “This is my counting bear, Mom.”

 

“Why is it a counting bear?  Does it belong to a game at school?”

 

“No, no,” she insists, “It wasn’t part of a game.”

 

“How many counting bears are there?” I ask.

 

“Lots,” she says, “But this bear was nowhere.  I found it.”

 

Two days later when I picked her up from school I found EIGHT little counting bears in assorted colors piled next to her mailbox.  I am now eight times suspicious of one little red plastic bear.  I gathered them up and showed them to the daytime teacher.  “Do these belong somewhere?”

 

“They belong in the math center,” she said. 

 

I looked pointedly at my girl, “They belong in the math center,” I repeated, “and they need to stay at school.”

 

I could see she was agreeable, but I suspected it was mostly an attempt to keep me quiet about the little red counting bear that was already at home.  “I can keep the bear at home, right?” she whispered.

 

I made a compromise.  “Yes,” I said, “until you’re done playing with it, or until you feel bad about having it home.  Then it can come back here.”

 

I’d like to tell you how it all worked out, but I ungrounded the dog 5 minutes too soon, and now I have figure out if the room-sized rug can be saved.

 

Sometimes a mess can turn your stomach.  Sometimes it just smells likechocolate.

 

CafeMom and other stuff

10.30.07

There is a place on the internet called Cafemom, if you mothers out there aren’t already spending way too much time on the internet.  One can spend hours there writing journals, reading journals, venting, ranting, giving advice, and arguing Christianity versus Atheism.  Mostly the last one, and whether that is good or bad depends upon how much you like impossible arguments.  Me?  Well, I get enough of those at home, thanks.

 

“It’s too cold to wear shorts today.  Yes, I realize the sun is shining, but it’s still too cold to wear shorts.  Trust me, it’s too cold to wear shorts.  Ok, let’s put on your shoes so we can go.  No, it’s too cold to wear sandals.”

 

And on and on and on, world without end, amen. 

 

But here’s something cool:  I joined a group of people on Cafemom who have 4 year olds.  Which means I’m not the only person in the world arguing daily about the weather.  I’m also not the only person in the world who has a kid who can wipe the front but still can’t reach the back.  I have to tell you, this makes me feel great!  I can always findsomeone else living with the exact same weirdness that I live with.  And that is a cool thing.

 

The downside is I can always find people who are happy to let me in on the little secret that my soul will burn in hell for all eternity because I think church is boring.

 

I guess you can’t win them all, can you?

 

Once in a while I find cute little messages in my inbox that say, “I will pray for you.”  This is meant to insult me, which I find amusing because I’m okay with people praying for me.  I pray sometimes, too, although I don’t go around bragging about it.  Go ahead and pray for me, especially if you think your prayers are going to hurt me, because I don’t think it works that way.  And if you think it does, then perhaps you need to re-examine your definition of what it means to be Christ-like (definition number 4 of “Christian” at dictionary.com).

 

Anyway.  That wasn’t my point.  My point was that my beautiful daughter is quite normal, as much as a 4 year old can be considered normal.  She can be the sweetest, most well-mannered child in the world, and an hour later the most horrid little brat ever.  She argues, she dawdles, she races.  She doesn’t want to hold my hand in parking lots.  She doesn’t want to wear her seat belt.  She gives me a hundred kisses, but she loves Daddy more.  Until she skins her knee, and then only Mommy can make it better.  Until Mommy says she can’t have a 3rd bowl of ice cream, then she only wants Daddy.

 

I think her grasp of the English language is phenomenal.  The other day she said with perfect diction, “Yes, yes, indeed, indeed.”  The same day she was laying on the landing at the bottom of the stairs and said, “You can’t expect me to walk up all of those stairs – I’m just a little baby!”  The same day the printer was disconnected from the computer and she screamed, “Now I can NEVER print any pictures EVER AGAIN!” The same day she watched the movie Narnia in it’s entirety without falling asleep even for a minute (wow, I can’t even pull that one off).

 

Every day she says or does something that knocks my socks off.  She navigates the pbskids.org website like a pro.  And the telephone – she suddenly loves talking on the phone.  A friend called me the other day, and his son wanted to say hello to my daughter, and the next thing you know a playdate has been scheduled.  At THEIR convenience.  I had to wrestle the phone away from Little Miss Grown-Up.

 

In fact, she acts so grown-up that now and again I make an error in judgment. She’s been talking about a “Spooky Walk” at school, so I figured a li’l haunted garage would be right up her alley.  I even called it a spooky walk for her benefit.  But the pale silent child that came out of that garage was not the same spunky costumed fairy that went in.  Um, whoops.  She recovered, however, when she remembered the warning that had been called into the garage as she entered, “Take it easy, there’s a 2 year old coming through.” 

 

Nothing offends her sensibilities more than being called a 2 year old.  Not even a scary guy in a glowing skull mask that appears out of thin air.  Whew.  Saved, once again, by the indomitable spirit of a 4 year old.