Wipeout

One of my favorite things to do as a child of five was to hoist my "husky" baby brother into my arms, spin him around for as long as I could keep hold of him and then watch him fall down as he tried to walk away. He liked the game too, spinning is fun after all. Eventually though, he learned to sit down and wait out the after effects of the spinning before trying to walk. The game lost a lot of it's allure that day.
A package came today. In it were new jammies for the children from their grandma.
Enzo got Lighting McQueens. He has never seen the film "Cars" he does not know who Lightning McQueen is. He does know he loves those jammies.
He carried them around the house until dinner time. After dinner he put them on and admired all of the instances of Lightning McQueen on his sweet new sleep wear, pointing to each one.
First he admired the big one on his tummy, then he admired a Lightning on his knee. I'm not sure how, but next he caught site of the McQueen square on his bottom. He pointed to it and exclaimed "CAR!" with no less enthusiasm than he'd given the first. As he twisted to his right, contorting to get a better view of the hiney car he glimpsed yet another, this one on the back of his left calf, and exclaimed again.

 

I watched, waiting for him to point to this newly discovered car. With the speed and excitement he'd been putting into this pointing and exclaiming exercise I expected something big. A backward somersault, a teetering fall, a tail chasing situation.
I got none of it.
His sister burst into the room at just that moment, distracted him and he ran off. He didn't even stumble.
Darn
I might have taken him for a spin right then and there to get my fix but at two and a half he's too well balanced to tumble down dizzy. If I'd started I'd have been stuck twirling children all night long. None of whom would have fallen hilariously over to reward me for my trouble.
It's a hard knock life, ya know?

Dumped

My relationship with dogs/my dog has changed dramatically over the years. I discussed it briefly here, in my first ever blog post. Today, I'll delve deeper into the topic. Let's start at the beginning.
I was deathly afraid of dogs as a child. I remember standing in the snow, paralyzed with fear at the sound of jingling behind me. It could be a dog's license jingling. The dog must be right behind me! What on earth was I going to do? After a while I figured out it was the metal zipper on the back pocket of my snow suit doing the jingling.
I stopped wearing that snow suit.
In my adolescence, I was an honorary member of a dog family. I learned to be comfortable around their dogs. It was giant step forward. Of course, we'd had a dog for the first eleven (or so) years of my life, and I'd never been afraid of him. Even when a kind old cocker spaniel meandered toward me, and reduced me to a shivering pile of tears on the side walk while school bound, I was not afraid of our Spiffy.
In the instance of the spaniel, her owner, Sister Morgan, saw us from her window, (Me, weeping in terror. Her sweet dog, looking up at me confused as to the source of my distress and probably trying to lend comfort with her presence) and came to my rescue, calling her dog home and consoling me as best a kind neighbor can.
And so, I made it to adulthood no longer horribly afraid of dogs but not comfortable with them to say the least. I could hold myself together in the presence of a canine, but only just.
This was ridiculous, I decided and set out on a course of self analysis. What I came up with is: I learned my fear of dogs from my mother. She didn't freeze and cry when approached by wandering dogs. In fact, I have memories of her bravely telling those same, tail wagging wanderers to "go home!" when they approached us on walks. That's just it though, she was just as anxious for them to leave as I was. She wasn't afraid they'd "get" her like I was, but she was mighty uncomfortable having them around and I could tell.
Once I figured this out I decided that once and for all, I was going to get over my fear of dogs. If not for me, then for my children. It is no fun standing stalk still in the snow perchance your outerwear is actually a sneaking dog. Crying in terror at the approach of a friendly neighbor of the four legged persuasion is no way to start your day. I would learn to love dogs in order to spare my future children that pain.
So, I told myself I liked dogs, and that I wanted one. I spent hours researching breeds and pined away waiting until we were in a situation where we could have one. That's when Mouchoir entered my life.

Side note- This isn't the picture I wanted, but it's the best I can find. Gahh, switching computers is troublesome.



He was so itty bitty he couldn't climb the stairs on his own. We bought him some puppy treats, the smallest we could find, but he couldn't get his wee jaws around them. He did like Kleenexes, however. That's where he got his name. It's French for Kleenex.
We loved him and coddled him and spoiled him.
Then we had a baby.
I continued to love "Mouch" after Zizza was born. I took more notice of his flaws though. The incessant barking any time any object moved within sight of our front window, the failure to potty train, the attacks on my ankles whenever I ventured to leave the house.
After Enzo was born I couldn't take any more of it. We hired a dog trainer who helped immensely but pointed out that if we want him to behave, we have to put in the time working with him.
Here's the thing, I'm busy. I've got kids to look after and potty train, I only have so much time for the dog.
He is much better than he was two years ago, but I don't generally see that. What I see is him biting my ankles when I tell him to get in his Kennel and raising holy hell when people come to my door.
Bottom line, I don't love him anymore.
I've become my mother after all. I tolerate the dog in my house hold for the sake of the family at large.
I'm not her though, because I remember loving him and I'd really like to love him again.
I've been working on that this past week. I let him come in the car with me when dropped off and picked up from dance class and preschool. I invited him to sit by me and even patted him while he was there.
I thought we were making good progress.
This morning I was crouching, taking inventory of the quiet toys in my church bag. I smelled poop. I was confused, the Mr was up stairs changing a diaper but surely I wouldn't smell it at such distance. Then I noticed the dog walking by, "you stink, Mouch" I said, thinking he must have passed gas. Then, as I looked to my right I saw, not two feet from me, a fresh log of poo. (If indeed, a 4.5 pound dog can be said to produce such. "Twig" might be a more accurate description, but I digress)
"You did that while I was sitting right here?" I said to the guilty dog.
I stalked to the back door, threw it open and turned to order him out when something caught my eye. Another piece of poo. This one, smashed. But... how?
Then I looked at the bottom of my shoe.
I hadn't seen the second piece because as I crouched there, on my toes, he deposited it right under my foot. So when I stood. I squished it.
I've never been so thankful not to have carpet in my living room and I don't know where this leaves me dog-wise. I had really thought we were getting to be friends again.

Too Hot for Hopscotch

Do you remember how I like going barefoot?
I remembered today.
Zizza and I were all ready to dart off to the mail box and collect "Lilo and Stitch" which arrived there, thanks to netfilx with the mail today. It was then that I noticed how efficient I'd been earlier in putting my shoes away. Generally, there is a substantial pile of assorted shoes on the floor under the collect-all chair. Not today.
Aside from the half pair of red flops which I know to be under the sofa (don't ask how long it's been there, or how long I've known it's location and left it where it lies) I was shoeless.
Now, when one is trying to sneak off to the mailbox while one's baby is sleeping it is important not to enter the room where said baby rests as this may disrupt the slumber that makes possible your sneak. So you see the tight spot I was in.
That is when a single but very important word,"barefoot" popped into my head.
I stepped onto my back patio to test the heat of the pavement. It felt downright cool so Zizza, the pup, and I set out on our sneaking.
On the way down the street I reveled in the warmth, the roughness, the bliss. "I wish I never had to wear shoes again" I thought. As I turned the corner though, the roughness was starting to wear on my wimpy, always wearing shoes out side, feet. That wear made the heat a little more intense and I had to step quick the rest of the way to the box.
I rolled my weight onto the outside of my feet and rested on the cooler-smoother concrete around the mailbox while I emptied it. Then it was time to return to the asphalt and start walking again. I'm not going to lie, things got a little dicey on the way back. I was relieved to reach the corner of my street again. The short stretch from my street to the mail box has no houses on it, no houses means no shade and that was nearly my undoing.
Back on my street scurrying from shady patch to shady patch, put me in mind of a memory.
It was late in the summer and record breaking hot. I'd watched the weather report on the mid-day news, so I'd known the heat was record breaking. 107 really did seem scorching before I'd experienced 115.
My sister and I along with a pair of our friends (also sisters) challenged our selves to a barefoot walk around the block.
We skipped from shady spot to shady spot, sometimes we even balanced on the beam of shadow cast by the top rail of a chain link fence. When velvety lawns presented themselves, we were only too glad to find rest in the cool, soft verdure. Be reminded though, this was the grip of summer, a record breaking day. Most of the lawns in the neighborhood, suffering from the strain, were rather brownish and pricklyish.
As we approached the last corner of the block we found ourselves in trouble. Our adventure had tested the strength of the calluses we'd been working all summer to build on our foot bottoms and we were facing the longest tree less stretch of side walk yet. A series of drive ways and block fencing bordered the walk on one side. If we'd taken our adventure in the morning hours that fence would have provided shade. Now though, the afternoon sun was casting that delicious darkness in the wrong direction. Wasted in the neighbor's fenced yard.
On the other side of the side walk was what passed as a grassy median strip. We knew though, there were a good deal more prickly weeds to be found there than grass of any kind. I would hesitate to walk there with shoes on, to brave it barefoot was unthinkable.
A very unpleasant few minutes passed by then. I think I must have blocked that part out. I don't really remember the rest. If I had to guess, I'd say we took turns dashing through to the refuge of the biggest tree on the block that beckoned invitingly from the far side of the death strip. Then, I imagine we hopped along the remaining shade spots home where we soaked our feet in the cool puddle left by the leaking spray at the water spickett that worked all day watering mom's garden. (Yes, I know the word is actually "spigot" but I'm having a memory here and it was always a "spickett" in those days)
If we were lucky enough, or sneaky enough we got twin-pops out of the huge chest freezer in the overstuffed garage and indulged our tired spirits by eating two sides each rather than splitting them like we were generally made to do.
You know, I could stand to eat both halves of a twin pop right now, and my scraped up feet sure would like the muddy grass of that spickett puddle.

Grandpa's Blocks

I've been so busy procrastinating the pile of sewing I've got to do I found myself completely unprepared for Easter. Unprepared for the bunny part anyway.
Last week I called my mother, just 2 days before she was scheduled to come down for a visit and asked if she could squeeze in a trip to the toy store before she came down. She knows a really good toy store you see, one where they sell interesting quality toys. I've recently found a store of that kind here but I knew I wouldn't get a chance to go there without children so my mother was my only hope. She said she'd try to make it there before coming here, but she couldn't promise.
As an after thought I said "Or, maybe you could convince Dad to give us his old blocks!" "I'd love it if he would!" She said. But we both knew how slim the chance was.
My dad is a stuff collector. He loves him some stuff and he hates to part with any of it. He gets a little uneasy when people use his stuff. Not because he doesn't want to share, but because he worries about misuse and damage.
I found the blocks when I was a kid. I found them and sneaked them out to play with.
He never knew.
Marmie caught me one time, she told me just to be sure and clean them up and put them back when I was done. She was glad to see them getting some use. I've had a soft spot spot the blocks ever since.
I don't know how she convinced him, but the blocks are up stairs in my family room.
As soon as they saw them, Zizza and Enz set right to building.

 

 

Pretty soon, Grandpa joined them.

 

I'm still amazed at my luck. I always hoped I get the blocks someday but I didn't think it would happen in time for my own littles to benefit from it.
Thanks Daddy

Dog pood

I've had a hard time letting Tiny Boy run around and play in the back yard. Little boys need to run around outside, I know, but I have a thing about dog poo and here's why.
One warm summer day I was left babysitting my little bothers, who were 10 months or so old at the time. They wanted nothing but to run around in the back yard. I, on the other hand, did not want to be in the back yard because it was hot and I was lazy. Also, since it was just me and the twins at home, I could watch whatever I wanted on TV, and let me tell ya, that didn't happen often. Sadly for me, those darn babies would give me no peace until I took them out side. So, here's what I did. I put them in their double stroller, the kind where the babies face each other, and I wheeled them into the back yard. I parked them in a poop-free zone and I went back inside to enjoy what ever I could find on local daytime television.
What possible trouble could they get into stuck in the stroller? I'd just peek out now and then during the commercials so I could bring them in if they got tired of the fresh air.
Only, when I went to check on them, I found clasped in the hands of one or the other, I couldn't tell you which, a big ol' log of dog poo.
I don't remember how I got it away from him, or how I got him cleaned up without touching his poo-hands, but I didn't tell my mother, or anyone, about the incident until last summer.
I think it was a wise secret to keep. You may be of the opinion that I should have kept it still, but I wanted you to understand about my back yard dog poo issues, so I told.
A few months ago I finally let Tiny walk around the lawn. I watched him like a hawk. Poo from a 4 pound dog hides really easily, I didn't want him finding a bit I hadn't seen. He never showed any interest in pieces of poo he happened upon and over time I relaxed and let him play and pick up rocks and do little boy stuff. I still kept an eye out for stray bits of poo, but Tiny was pretty free to wander.
Thursday we were in the back yard. I was spraying Baby Girl with sunscreen and not paying attention to Tiny. Then it happened. He walked over from the edge of the patio, and there clasped in his plump little paw, was a lump of poo!
I took hold of his wrist and tried to shake it out of his grasp but he was hard to hold onto because he was reaching for the dog with his other hand. And what was in his other hand? That's right, poo. He was trying to feed the second lump to the dog. It was old poo, sort of petrified from being in the sun among the rocks. Feeding the dog is one of Tiny's favorite things to do. "Little bits of hard brown stuff? Well that must be dog food! I'll just pick it up and go give it to my puppy" thought Tiny Boy, and he did.
After I scoured my small boy, and could again think, I remembered this "his poop is his food is his poop" Let's just call it all "pood" I think Santa might bring that barbie for Tiny this year. I don't think he'd have much use for her, but he would feed that dog hid pood all the live long day.

Butt Wheat

While waiting for the oatmeal to cook this morning (it took sooooo long today but it was extra good to make up for it) Baby Girl climbed onto the table to reach her hand way down to the bottom of the Honey Bunches box searching for crumbs.
Shooing her off triggered a memory, so here it is.
In the house where we lived through my preschool years the table was in the room with the TV and the TV was on a high self sort of in front of the table. That's a bit of a hazy description but it's a bit of a hazy memory so it will have to do.
We all took turns sitting on the table, getting scolded for it by the mother, and scolding each other for it. I was the youngest at that point so I imagine I really didn't play that big a role in the sibling scold-a-thon that was TV time, but I remember at least once, blissfully laying on the table watching "Little House on the Prairie". My second oldest sister at that point came into the room and told me I was getting butt wheat all over the table and I'd better get off quickety-fast.
The older Sibs were always complaining about the butt wheat on the table. "3-2-1 Contact!" and "The Bloodhound Gang" were on TV and in the back ground I heard "Get off the Table! I don't want your Butt Wheat all over my place at Dinner!"
I don't ever remember hearing the term "butt wheat" in any other context, though I just googled it and apparently there's a comedian named Butt Wheat. I don't think I've heard it since we moved from that house when I was five. I can't imagine how they got away with using it so much. My mother was firm in her discouragement of crude language. To say the word "butt" in her presence was to garner a very severe look.
We were taught to use the word "bottom" and only when necessary. Also, the word "poo" in all it's forms was not to be used. "messy" was the appropriate term in our house.
These words, "poo" and "bum," were the ones I was made to say by my sister and her friend when they took me to hide under a bush and taught me to "swear" but that's a story for another day.