Are you ready for more tales of a demon beagle? We will continue our saga of Hank, although if you haven’t already I suggest you check out Part 1. And so, dear readers, our tale continues where it left off; with a devilishly smart beagle.
We moved into a new house a few months ago. We left the forests of Castlewood for the wilds Ellisville, a scant three miles away. As we settled into suburban bliss we all adjusted to the subtle changes; more space, more people, more traffic… just more. Madison loved the paved streets, perfect for learning to ride her bike while Hank chased her. Jack would watch and just laugh. Life was good.
Then, on one not so spectacular Friday afternoon, all hell broke loose. It started off as a typical day. I went to work and the kids were at home with the baby-sitter. Greg had the afternoon to toil at the duck club, cleaning out the barn. I was just stepping out of a meeting when I received a tense call from Greg. There was an accident and he had managed to poke himself in the eye with a wire. I will spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say that it was gross and he needed a doctor ASAP. I was at the other end of town at the time, but fortunately his parents were home to help. We all sprang into action; I rushed home while Greg was whisked away to the eye doctor. Luckily the injury, while pretty deep and very serious, would not cause permanent damage. Greg was given medicine and put into bed for the night.
To add to the chaotic nature of the evening, I was scheduled to baby-sit for a good friend. Madison had been looking forward to having the twins over for a week and quite frankly I was looking forward to having someone over to keep my little monsters occupied. With Greg settled comfortably in bed I went to pick up pizza and the kids. It wasn’t until I returned home with dinner and a couple of miniature house guests that we realized that the beagle was not begging for his slice of pie. I looked in bed with Greg, a frequent haunt of the beagle, and to my surprise he wasn’t there. I searched the house while the kids ate and then the neighborhood trying to find Hank. He was gone.
We made frantic calls to our neighbors both current and former, the animal shelters, the police and finally posted pictures on Facebook. Even though Hank was micro-chipped, we worried that he would wander into traffic and get hit by a car. We worried that he might tangle with a wild animal (Hank sometimes has “big dog” syndrome and thinks that he is tougher than he is.) We worried that he wouldn’t come home. It was the crappy icing on an already crummy cake. With a few friends we wandered the neighborhoods surrounding ours calling out for Hank, with no luck at all. We went to bed that night minus one little demon beagle.
The next morning, after more calls to our vet and the micro-chip company, we resigned ourselves to the waiting game. We got dressed and were just getting ready to leave (to another doctor’s appointment for Greg’s eyeball) when the doorbell rang. Greg and I looked at each other and ran to the door. There was a tall blonde woman, holding Hank on a leash. “Is this your dog?” she asked. Hank ran in the house and flopped on the couch. “I thought he might be yours,” she said with a smile. Then she told us how Hank had spent his evening.
Hank, sensing an opportunity in the chaos, snuck out of the house sometime in the early afternoon that Friday. Around the corner and several doors down are a couple of small businesses that operate out of older homes. One of these businesses is a tree service, whose sales force was not always good about latching the door all the way. Hank, returning to his felonious roots, took the opportunity to break in and scope out the food situation. The owner was out, running errands and wrapping up her week when she received a call from one of her salesmen.
“Did you know that there is a dog in the office?” he said.
“What do you mean a dog in the office?” she replied. “Like a living breathing dog?”
“Yep, it looks like a beagle,” he said.
“I think he may belong to the new neighbors,” she said. “I’m on my way.”
She picked up Hank and brought him home but no one answered when she knocked. Hank’s timing was perfect, I had just left to get the kids and Greg was knocked out by pain pills. Not wanting to leave Hank to his own devices she thought the best idea was to take him home with her and try back in the morning. Hank was more than willing to hop into her car and go home with her, where he romped and played with her dogs and cuddled with her husband before dining on a steak dinner. They put Hank in the garage for the evening and went to bed. Around two in the morning her husband woke up to go on a fishing trip.
“Be careful not to let the beagle out of the garage,” she cautioned. “I don’t want him to run away.”
“The beagle isn’t in the garage,” he said.
“WHAT!” she exclaimed, sitting up in bed.
“Nope. Look down,” he said pointing to a lump in the covers. “When I woke up the garage door was wide open and the dog was in bed with us.”
In short, Hank broke into an office. Took a ride out to Washington, MO where he spent a relaxing evening dining on steak, playing with dogs and snuggling in some random bed. While we wandered the neighborhoods looking for him Hank took a little vacation with fine dining and lavish accommodations. It was no wonder that he was exhausted when he came home to us on Saturday. We thanked the woman profusely while Hank snored away on the couch.
We bought Hank a new collar with new tags, since he managed to lose his old tags just prior to his little adventure. (Murphy’s law in full effect, the dog will only go missing the day after he has lost his tags.) We updated his profile on the microchip to account for his new address, his greying coat and little weight gain thanks to his pillaging ways. I doubt this will be the last time that Hank pulls a Houdini and escapes for a little adventure. I tell you this story as a cautionary tale, since Hank’s sneakiness knows no bounds. Who knows, the next house he breaks into could be yours.
Hide yo’ food. Hide yo’ wallet!
Lock your doors and bolt them tight, since the demon beagle haunts the night. Hide your trash and guard your food because there is no stopping this sneaky dude. And should the beagle ever grace your door, be forewarned he has the tendency to snore. I will tell you what will lay ahead, empty plates and a beagle in your bed. That is the sole purpose of today’s blog, to warn one and all about the demon dog.
So I hurt myself this week. I pinched a nerve in my neck. I would love to say it was doing something exciting, like making a spectacular dive in flaming dodge-ball or rescuing a family of four from a freak runaway golf cart accident. In reality I slept on it funny. In my defense I was hopped on Nyquil when I went to bed so I could have been sleeping on my head in a box of nails and I wouldn’t have noticed at the time.
When I woke up Monday morning I couldn’t move. I looked like a cross between the Hunchback of Notre Dame and Medusa. (Oh I fell asleep with wet hair too, not a pretty look the morning after.) After a trip to the doctor I was put on medication and sent straight to bed, leaving my husband in charge of the kiddo.
Greg is not what you would call the domestic type. Granted, he is great with a grill or a take-out menu so I knew that we wouldn’t starve; but I was a little concerned. You see I tend to be pretty, well what’s the nice way to say it… Type A. You could call it bossy with a touch of controlling on the side. So relinquishing the reigns to dear old hubby took some restraint, pain be damned. Here is what I learned this week:
1. It doesn’t really matter if your daughter’s clothes match completely… or at all. She will function just fine at school even if she is wearing black leggings with a brown, pink and blue striped shirt and orange socks. On the plus side we can always just tell people she dressed herself.
2. There is always an episode of Law and Order on somewhere, and there is nothing better if you are stuck in bed for a couple of days.
3. Even though it seems like it, the pile of dirty laundry can never actually get taller than you. Gravity has a way of fixing that. Living with a ginormous pile of laundry for a few days is better than nagging your husband into doing it, especially if he has the tendency to shrink sweaters and turn white t-shirts pink.
4. There seems to be a trend with the girly pop stars’ videos. One that involves explosive bras… shooting sparks, fireworks and whipped cream. I am not sure where they purchase these bras and what purpose they serve… Oh and I need to buy some new bras. Your mind tends to wander weird places when you are on pain medication.
5. It is really sweet to sit and listen to your husband and your child just play. This week they had a tea party and a wrestling match. They watched some movies and she colored pictures for him. I have to remember how important it is for her to have some time with just Daddy, important for both of them.
6. It is also important to remember how hard Daddy tried this week; cooking, “cleaning”, and taking care of me in general. Even when I was crabby and mean and only wanted to point out that he got more food on the stove then he got on the plate. Or when he spilled milk all over the counter and “forgot” to clean it up. Instead, I have to remember he spilled cooking for me and caring for our daughter.
7. Even if I am hurt I need to reign in my crabbiness. It is hard for anyone to want to take care of you if you snark at them non-stop. This is the toughest lesson to learn, one that I am still working on. So today I am looking for a sweet little thank you for my dear husband. I am thinking nothing says I love you like chocolate covered bacon… But then I may be nursing him back to health from a heart attack. Maybe not. He can be such a bear when he is sick.
Okay, okay. I admit it. I have been gone for a while. Life just snuck up on me and before you know it a couple weeks had passed me by why my blog sat… lonely and neglected. And for what? Well, I am not sure really. I mean, it has been hectic in the “life is crazy just get used to it” kind of way. Hmmmm, here is what I have to show for the past few weeks:
When my daughter says you look sparkly it is not a compliment. Sounds counterintuitive right? I firmly belong to the “more bling is always better” school of thought. And who doesn’t want a little sparkle in their life? The other day however, my kiddo was just finishing in the bathtub. “Mom, my fingers are sparkly,” she said looking at them quizzically. I held her water-wrinkled little hand looking intently for some rogue glitter that Johnson & Johnson may have missed. (I will cry when we outgrow the ubiquitous pink bottle by the way. It smells like baby heaven.) She pointed to her pruney fingers; “see they are sparkly like great mammo’s fingers.” (Sigh.) I will not tell my grandma the new meaning for sparkly. After all, she is the one who taught me to love the bling.
My dog’s strength is directly proportional to how much he hates something. His name is Hank, and he is 35 pounds of personality. I am convinced he is half beagle and half demon, sent to punish me for my sins. (I am Catholic, okay. Guilt is part of the package.) There are days when Hank is too weak to drag his body off of the couch to go outside. He has whined to be helped onto the bed and then lacked the strength to do anything but flop onto the pillows. And yet, in a recent trip to the vet, it took my husband AND the vet tech four sets of arms to hold him down while the vet gave him… wait for it… nasal spray. Then Hank had the strength of 10 beagles, and was not afraid to use it. Whipping his head back and forth he barked as if the devil himself was trying to vaccinate him. If there were only some way we could harness this power for good and not evil, I think the whole energy crisis would be solved. We would be a beagle powered society. That’s green, right?
I suck at economics. This semester it is my whole focus. I thought I would get my economics requirements out of the way. I thought the plan was pretty brilliant, if I do say so myself. Might as well keep my brain in economics mode all semester, right? I have Microeconomics on Mondays, Macroeconomics on Tuesdays and “Panics, Depressions and Recessions” online. Doesn’t that sound fun? There was only one flaw in my plan. I am not an economist. Therefore there is a limit to how much a non-economist can absorb any given week. It is a problem. The main problem is the reading. Not that it isn’t interesting, it is… sometimes. It is just that I can’t get more than three or four pages in without falling asleep. Which brings me to my next point:
I am very well rested.
Finally, my daughter turned four this week. We had a party (I will tell you all about that later) and we ate a LOT of cake. (It was delicious.) This week has been a mix of emotions for me though. My baby is getting BIG. (sob) It really hit me this week, watching her strut her four-year-old stuff. She is not a baby anymore. She is not even a toddler… she is a little kid. Excuse me while I go sit in the corner and cry a little. Pass the chocolate please.
I am writing this post on a brand new laptop, which seems like good news. The circumstances that required the purchase of said laptop were less than ideal, however. Last Tuesday I had a bad day of epic proportions.
The day started innocently enough, Starbucks and school, a typical running-around morning. After preschool I walked into the house to discover the back door standing wide open. My beagle, demon that he is, managed to jiggle the lock and worm his way inside. Once inside he managed to tip over the trash can and help himself to rancid ravioli. He also spread coffee grounds all over the kitchen. How fun.
I started to clean the mess up and heard an awful sound from the office. The sound of sick beagle… on my brand new carpet. I think I moved in hyper-speed to the other room just in time to see my adorable dog soil my brand-spanking-new floor.
Madison, curious to see what the commotion was about came running behind me. She tripped over the cord to my laptop and sent it crashing from the table to the floor; shattering the screen. In the span of 15 minutes my day took a nosedive.
I found myself in an unusual and new position. For the first time in Madison’s life I felt completely out of control. I wanted to scream or cry or yell profanities; none of which I like to do in front of my kiddo. Greg wasn’t home so I couldn’t rely on him to take over parenting duties while I had a mental breakdown. I was on my own.
I asked Maddie to play in her room for a second, while explaining she wasn’t in trouble. I threw the dog outside and while I was there I let loose some very loud four letter words. I sent my husband a profanity laden text message and then I sat on the couch for a minute before I tackled the mess around me.
I bring this up because it is in this moment that I realized how hard parenting can be sometimes. It is these moments that can set the tone for how a child deals with conflict and mistakes, how they chose to handle issues in life. It is also in these moments that it is hardest to keep your cool.
It is kind of hard to admit that for a split second I wanted nothing more than to yell at my child or hit my dog for being so bad. I wanted to yell at my husband for not closing the door all the way and I wanted to kick myself for leaving the laptop cord hanging off of the table. But in truth, these things just happen. No matter how crappy, it is just a part of life.
I had to remind myself that it was just carpet, and with a little cleaning I was able to get the stain out. I was able to sweep up all of the coffee grounds and get my kitchen clean again. And I was able to buy a new laptop, one that I have to admit, I like a little more than my old one. All of this was just stuff, and it is either fixable or replaceable.
My daughters peace of mind is not as easily fixed and I am glad that I did not damage it by losing my cool in front of her. I can’t guarantee that I will always take the right track or that my daughter won’t hear me slip a four letter word every now and then. But in this moment, right now, I am glad that I didn’t react the way I wanted to. I guess that is why parenting is so hard, because it involves years of putting your own needs and basic instincts aside for the betterment of your child.
When I walked into my daughters bedroom, happily playing with her princess dolls I had a realization. Parenthood is hard because it is worth it.
How quickly the time flies. It has been a couple of weeks since I have been able to devote any time to my blog, and surprisingly I missed it. The past few weeks have been intense, hectic and fun. Before these memories are erased by a new school semester, a new year and the average running that makes up my life, I thought I should write them down. I wanted to take a look at some of the moments that made this holiday special, the ordinary moments I tend to forget by February. Here is my list:
There was the moment you run into an old friend and you are able to pick up right where you left off. In my case it had been twelve years, and it seems a cup of coffee was all it took to pick right back up. Oh, the simple joys of easy friendships.
The moment that you realize your kiddo is paying attention. Madison picked up a bell, a Christmas decoration, and started ringing it as hard as her chubby little arms would let her. She started yelling, “Who has money? Who has money?” I asked my little bell ringer what she was doing and she replied, “Getting money for the people who don’t have any.” Lesson learned.
My sister was quick to point out that the Salvation Army bell ringers hang out in places of commerce, like outside of grocery stores and shopping malls. She thought it was a sign that I shop to much, and she may be right. Instead I chose to think that my wanton consuming at the holiday season can have an educational affect on my daughter as well as a slimming affect on my wallet. Not to mention the positive effects on the economy. That’s my story and I am sticking to it. The moment that I realized denial and rationalization has yet to fail me.
There was also the moment that my dear friend graduated from college. I was caught off guard with all of the things I wanted to tell her. I wanted to say that it seemed a shame that her hard work was overshadowed by the hustle and bustle of the holiday season. I wanted to tell her how amazing it was that she put herself through school, while working full time and supporting herself. I wanted to tell her that she was an inspiration to me. No matter what life threw her way including bad boyfriends, awful bosses, layoffs and bad luck in general; she never ever gave up. I wanted to say all of these things and more, but couldn’t figure out a way that didn’t sound condescending or trite. Instead I just bought her a kick-ass graduation gift; another nod to my philosophy that retail therapy can work wonders when you can’t find the words.
There was the moment, sitting down to breakfast at my in-laws, that I was truly thankful for holiday traditions. Especially if the traditions are as delicious as breakfast casserole and Christmas cookies. Some of my in-laws’ traditions are very different than what I grew up with. For example, they always took turns opening one present at a time whereas my family was a wrapping paper free-for-all. This year there was also the moment that I realized how much their traditions have become my own as well; that I love opening presents one at a time and eating Christmas cookies with breakfast.
There was the moment when I was finally ready to host Christmas dinner. That moment of peace when you realize that everything is done; the house is clean, the gifts are wrapped the food prepared. This moment happened thirty minutes before everyone arrived so it was a little later than I would have liked, but it was a nice moment none the less.
The moment that the family descended on the house and the feasting began. The chaotic rush of present opening and eating and laughing; there is nothing like it at any other time in the year. This was a moment of mixed emotions, since it was the first Christmas since my parents divorced and the first year that one of us kids hosted Christmas. (I am the oldest and the bossiest so naturally I called dibs on Christmas. Very mature, I know.) Somewhere in the hustle of the evening I looked around at my family and had a realization. We will all be okay. The holidays are different now, and there was that weird moment when my mom and my dad gave my sister identical gifts. (awkward) But despite it all, this was the first holiday when it didn’t feel so tense. This was the moment that I realized that things will get easier.
There was the moment, on the 26th, as I cleaned up the house that I finally realized how much wine we drank the night before. Champagne and wine and then Baileys… and spiked hot cocoa… Bottles clanking, I took the empties out to the recycling and realized I didn’t even have a wisp of a hangover. No headache, no wonky stomach…. It was a Christmas MIRACLE!
But the best moments, by far, where the moments I was able to see Christmas as my three year old daughter saw it. There was the excitement driving past houses that would put the Griswolds to shame, with a blow up nativity next to a waving Santa Claus. There was the moment that we set out cookies and milkbones for Santa and the reindeer. (Reindeer LOVE dog treats.) And then the moment that she realized that Santa had eaten the treats she left for him. There was the moment that she was FINALLY allowed to open her Christmas presents. And the moment she was FINALLY able to give us the gift she had made in pre-school. Christmas can really test a kid’s patience. The gift was a lovely picture frame made of tongue depressors and buttons. There was the moment that she had to give us all check-ups with her new doctor’s kit and the moment I caught her sneaking Christmas candy; her cheeks stuffed with chocolate like a PMS-ing chipmunk.
As I write these I realize that I could keep going for days, so I guess I will add one more moment, a moment that happened just now. This is the moment I realize how very lucky I am. This is a moment I won’t soon forget no matter how busy life gets. (Well, at least I will try.)
My Saturday nights used to be very different. As I sit here and write this a flood of memories comes rushing back. It is eleven o’clock on a Saturday and I have been in my pajamas for close to two hours now. There was a time where my evening wouldn’t even begin until eleven on a Saturday. There was a time when, on a whim, we jumped in the car and ended up in Las Vegas—twenty-four hours away. There was another night we talked ourselves into a rooftop party and toasted our slick talking with champagne; on someone else’s dime, because free drinks always taste better.
We stayed up late and we woke up later. We went interesting places and met interesting people; at least they seemed interesting at the time… I have the tendency to make “new best friends” when I drink. We were young and vibrant and each upcoming weekend held the endless promise of a good time (even if they didn’t always end up that way.)
We played kings, we played circle of death and we played quarters; drinking whatever cheap beer was on sale. When we decided that we were too mature to bounce money across the table we switched to a more grown-up game—“drinking” Trivial Pursuit. (The rules are simple, if you miss the pie piece you have to take a shot, if you get it right then everyone else has to take a shot. By the end of the game NO ONE feels smart.)
We were young, we were dumb and we had a lot of fun.
Flash forward several years and now I am sitting on my couch, trying to stay awake past 10:30 on a Saturday night. I spent the evening hanging out with my three year old and my husband; just your typical, ordinary evening. Not that I am complaining, I love my family and I love the time we spend together. Every now and then I am just struck by the contrast in my life as it is now, and how it used to be.
After dinner it was bath time for the monster, but before she could head for the bathroom she had to say goodbye to the ornaments on the Christmas tree. I am sure it makes sense to a three year old. She looked at me and said, “Fie meese turks eesh.” Again, I think it makes sense to a three year old.
“Five means fish eat?” I asked as I helped her into the bathtub.
“No. Fie meese turks eesh,” she repeated.
Now usually she is pretty clear when she talks, and most of the time I can understand her. Even when she is not so clear I can usually speak toddler. But some nights I get a little rusty and tonight was one of those times. Thus started the new game we play on Saturday nights, Toddler Translations.
Fight me, wish heat?
Flies eat goose wheat?
Flight wings with sweets?
“Five means roast beef?” my husband yelled from the kitchen; wishful thinking from Mr. Drive Through Menus on the Brain.
My daughter shot me a look that said, “My parents are idiots” before yelling “NO! FIE MEESE TURKS EESH.”
“Five means twist east?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied, obviously exhausted by her parents idiocy.
I looked at her trying to find meaning in the phrase, five means twist east. She smiled back at me as if she had just said something completely profound.
It was not the first Saturday night that a half-naked, incoherent person sitting next to me thought they were the next Confucius. I guess the more things change…
The moral of this story is:
Things will change as you start to age
It’s time to let it go, just turn the page.
So although your partying has greatly decreased
You’ll giggle as your toddler says: Five Means Twist East.
I don’t know what it means either. Any ideas?
It is finals time, which can only mean that I am in constant search for more caffeine. I think the barista may have noticed that my need for energy was slightly more profound today. It could have been the crazy gleam in my eye or perhaps the weird twitch in my forehead that only comes from an overly full cranium. Maybe it was in fear of the overly large, Irish-afro I was sporting because I neglected to try to tame my tresses at all today.
Regardless of the reason she added an extra boost of caffeine to my already juiced up beverage, making my day. (Or at least my two hours until the buzz wore off.) It is the simple things in life that bring me joy, like free espresso. So a haiku for the barista at Starbucks, who added a little sunshine to my day.
My sweet barista
The extra shot was sublime
Bliss with chocolate
It may not be Shakespeare, but a small token to show my gratitude. Well, that and my change in the tip cup.
Let me start this post by saying I love my husband. I really do. But there are days that I absolutely, positively want to kill him. A sampling of these lovely moments:
- The time when I nearly broke my neck after tripping on his size thirteen shoe in the doorway when I was loaded down with groceries.
- Two seconds later when I tripped over the other one.
- The time he offered to “help” clean the kitchen, by stacking all of the dirty dishes in the sink like a demented, porcelain Jenga game. I lost two plates and a bowl in that game.
- Or the time that he shattered the patio table trying to wedge the umbrella into it, ten seconds after he took it out of the box.
- And finally the second time he shattered the patio table trying to put the umbrella into it, also known as the day we bought a wrought iron table.
My husband is a bull in a china shop, a fact that I love and loathe simultaneously. After some commiseration with my girlfriends I have come to learn that I am not the only one who has a “destruction-aly inclined” significant other. I have one friend whose husband we have lovingly renamed The Destructor.
The Destructor, or D as we will call him, is a very nice guy. One of the nicest that I have ever met in fact. He is charming and sweet and loves my friend with all of his heart; a trait that has endeared him with all of us. My friend, well let’s just call her J in keeping with the initial theme… (get it, initial…okay, I’ll stop) My friend J had told me horror stories about the destructive abilities of her husband; abilities that put my husband’s to shame.
The first story she told me was the one about the stove. They had just bought their first house together and they were moving in, well sort of. The transition was a little stressful since J was moving across the state and she still hadn’t sold her condo in St. Louis. She would be living between the two places until it sold. But looking at the bright side, she was super excited to make this home her own, to take her first bubble bath in their tub, to build their first fire in the fireplace and to cook their first meal in their kitchen… you get the drift. Their house was shiny and new and everything seemed perfect, until the Destructor made an appearance. The kitchen was mostly unpacked, they were down to the decorative touches when D came charging in with all the grace of a water buffalo. While standing on counter, placing a decorative vase on a ledge in the kitchen he lost his balance. He took a step forward to catch himself when he put his foot through the brand new, glass-top stove. Sparks flew as he launched his body off the counter and on to the floor to avoid electrocution, knocking over everything on the counter. J looked in horror as her shiny new kitchen was now covered in glass and shooting blue sparks. Whoops.
Unfortunately this was not the last appearance the Destructor would make. Remember I mentioned that J had not sold her condo? In an effort to do so she had contractors come to replace and repair all sorts of things in the unit, from freshly cleaned carpets upstairs to a new ceiling in the basement. J was feeling pretty good about selling the condo and finally getting to live with D full time. She thought it was a good time to blow off some steam.
After a ballgame, dinner and drinks J and D were feeling pretty good. They were feeling so good in fact, it was a good thing that the condo was in walking distance from the bar. As the stumbled into the house J climbed into bed and quickly fell asleep. She awoke to yelling from the bathroom, which is never a good thing by the way. There is hard to describe what she saw there.
First, there was the water; shooting out of a gaping hole where the toilet tank used to be. Then there was the toilet tank, shattered on the floor. Finally there was the Destructor, soaking wet and flopping like a fish out of water trying to figure out what to do first. (In his defense, he is a very handy guy and usually knows how to turn off the water. All I can say is that his senses may have been slightly impaired that evening.) The only thing he could say was that he “slipped.” I am convinced he slipped into that magical drunken place where the laws of physics no longer apply. That, and as the Destructor he must have super human strength. Meanwhile the water was beginning to puddle on the newly cleaned carpet. J quickly turned off the water and grabbed some old towels to sop up the mess. She left the soggy mess in the bathtub and went back to bed.
The next morning, after sending the Destructor to the hardware store to buy a new toilet, she walked into the basement to wash her wet towels. She opened the vents in the basement to promote some circulation when she was unexpectedly soaked. The geyser of water had managed to drain down a vent and all the way to the basement. They spent the rest of the weekend on a deranged game of hide and seek in their ventilation system with a shop-vac and towels. Lots and lots of towels.
You would think that with a husband like the Destructor that J would welcome a girl’s weekend, to commiserate on the craziness of husbands, family and life. I did, in fact, just spend the last weekend with J talking about all of these things. But it was not in the way you might imagine. Those moments that I mentioned, the ones in which I want to kill my husband, caused J to tear up. You see she would like nothing more than to trip over a pair of her husband’s sneakers. She would love to catch him drinking directly out of the milk carton or tracking mud through the house. She even misses the way he watches television so loud it could wake the dead.
She has lived the last year without her husband while he has been deployed in Afghanistan. She has lived without all of those little ordinary moments, the moments that make up a marriage. The good and the bad, she has lived without the glances and glares, the little tiffs and the inside jokes. She has done it with patience and grace, attending weddings and parties by herself with a big smile (and a large cut-out of D’s head on a stick so he won’t feel left out in the pictures.)
D returns home in the next few weeks. Anytime J caught a glimpse of a calendar I swear you could see her heart skip a beat with excitement. She began counting down weeks ago and with each passing day you can see a bigger spring in her step and a lilt in her voice. What would a girl’s weekend be without a little shopping? While we were out I asked her what she wanted for Christmas, and she said “I am already getting everything I want for Christmas; I am getting my husband back.”
I am going to remember that response the next time I trip over my dear husbands shoes, or the next time he forgets where the trash can is located. I will hear her voice when I want to throttle him for running late or drying his muddy and wet hunting clothes in my clean dryer. For as often as I want to kill him, I know I could never live without him. It took a good friend to remind me. So tomorrow I will call her, just to hear her say we are one day closer to the return of the Destructor. I can’t wait. I know I am not the only one.
The Oeltjen house is in mourning today. David died last night, peacefully in his sleep… I think. It is hard to tell when a frog is sleeping and when it is just hanging out. We found him in his tank last night, not moving… lying belly up. David was gone.
David may seem like a strange name for a frog, but in truth he was named in honor of Madison’s uncle. A little back story:
Madison turned three last February. As the only grandchild, her aunts and uncles—both biological and surrogate—vie to win the “best gift” of the year. That is the present that Madison likes the most, the present that makes her eyes go wide with joy. I know, I know, rough life for little Miss Madison. We are a lucky bunch. There is no prize for this gift (although there should be now that I think about it, maybe a bottle of champagne to share with Mommy.) All they win is bragging rights for the rest of the year. It is funny to watch the most free spirited bachelors and trend conscious ladies spend hours in the toy store hunting down the perfect gift for a three year old. It is amazing to see a little girl turn the toughest of guys into a marshmallow playing dolls on the living room floor.
For her first birthday the big winner was a blanket, a purple Tinker-Bell blanket. The second Madison opened the present she flopped on the floor, cuddled up and stuck her thumb in her mouth. Ding, ding ,ding, we have a winner folks. We don’t go anywhere without purple Tinker-Bell. There have been other toys that are special to Madison, a floppy Eeyore doll and a stuffed kitten named Sushi to name a few. They are special toys that remind Madison of special people in her life, always there for her when she needs them.
This last birthday, the big 3, Madison got a special gift from her Uncle David and his girlfriend Jamie. It was a little aquarium with two little frogs swimming in the bottom. I wasn’t sure how I felt about presents that require regular feeding and tank cleaning, but the smile on Maddie’s face made me rethink my doubts. She immediately named her frogs, Jamie and David. Easy enough to remember, right? Little amphibian namesakes for two very special people.
For several months Jamie and David lived happily in their tank, at least I think they did. It is not like they have tails to wag so it is hard to tell. Madison would introduce them to everyone who walked in the door. She would tell the checker at the grocery store about David and Jamie, who lived in her room, prompting quizzical looks at Mommy. Life was good.
After a time, Jamie started to get a little thinner. She didn’t swim as vigorously as she once did. We noticed that David was getting fatter and fatter and we thought he was eating Jamie’s food. One day we woke up and Jamie was gone. At naptime we told Madison we were going to bury Jamie in the back yard; a little white lie since she was given a burial at sea, if you know what I mean. We tried to explain that Jamie had died and Madison seemed okay with the idea. Especially when we went to the next family function and Madison told the entire extended family that Jamie had died. This was particularly awkward since the human Jamie was out of town and not there to prove she was still alive and kicking. Whoops.
David has been swimming along happily for the past several months. Then, last night we found David belly up. I looked at Greg, trying to figure out what to say when Madison spoke up. “I guess David just really missed Jamie;” she said. I looked at her sideways. “What do you mean, sweetie?” I asked. She just smiled and said, “David really missed Jaime, so he died and now he can be with her in the back yard.” It is amazing what three year olds will say sometimes.
With the holiday season approaching I had been worried about Madison getting spoiled. She doesn’t really need anything and I was getting worried that the focus on presents would be unhealthy. I was worried that she would miss the point of the season. I guess I didn’t have to worry. It seems like the lessons I want her to learn are sinking in, that people are more important than “stuff.” Who knew that two little amphibians could help teach me and Madison such a good lesson?
I looked at Greg with a smile. “I guess they just needed to be together,” I said as I tucked in Madison for the night. Greg was waiting with a kiss when I closed her bedroom door. Who knew that a birthday gift for a three year old could turn into something so sweet? Something so romantic even? It is just like Romeo and Juliet; a froggy, green version of Romeo and Juliet playing itself out on a shelf in the bedroom of a three year old.
I can only quote the Bard of Avon for the moral of this story: “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts.” I guess I didn’t realize that one of those parts could be froggy in nature. Maybe I should be quoting Kermit for this post, “it’s not easy being green.”
I am not sure where to begin. Blogging has always seemed like a good idea… in theory. I mean, in theory I have a lot of funny, witty and interesting things to say. In practice, well who knows? A little background, I am a thirty-something student and mom trying to navigate suburbia, school and motherhood.
Most days I just try to not to screw things up to badly; if we can end the day clean-(ish), uninjured and with pleasantly full bellies I would call the day a success. I shop a little too much and clean a little too little. I see nothing wrong with letting the dishes slide if I am in the middle of a REALLY good book, or Law & Order episode for that matter.
I am constantly enthralled by my daughter, who is three. Her ability to giggle at a falling leaf or gasp in amazement when she sees a real live duck reminds me that the world is an awesome place. Well, that and I may be in WAY over my head. That some greater being out there determined that I am capable of raising this little piece of perfection into adulthood simultaneously excites and scares the crap out of me.
I am constantly amazed by my husband, but for very different reasons. I love that he has found his passion in life, a passion he pursues with childlike simplicity and resolve. At the same time I am astounded that this passion seems to be one of the major sources of the mess in my house. (How many camouflaged flashlights do we need in the kitchen today?)
I have a normal life, with ordinary ups and downs. I drink wine, love butter in all of its delicious forms and think that a good chocolate chip cookie can cure anything. Some days I am Martha Stewart and others I am more like Peg Bundy or maybe Marge Simpson. My name is Liz, and I am trying to build a blissfully, comically, ordinary life.
a life just ordinary 