Make your mark

Recently a friend from high school was killed in a traffic accident.  I hadn't seen him since high school and only recently became Facebook friends with him.  It wasn't anything deep or "catching up" like, it was more, "Oh cool, I wonder what he's been doing for the last 20-some years."  But when I heard the news that he died, I cried. It was an unexpected, immediate reaction.  I hadn't talked to this man in forever and there I sat with tears streaming down my face.  I tried to figure out why this hit me so hard and in my introspection realized that his death was such an 'in-your-face' way of facing my own mortality.  I mean, I know I'm mortal; I cringe at the stupid and dangerous things I did as a kid and spend sleepless nights now that I have teenagers praying they don't do anything like that.  I was past the point of thinking I was invincible but was still at the "that only happens to old people, I've got time" stage of my life.  No more.  I wasn't trying to be selfish and make his death about me; I am so sad for everyone in his life -  his wife, his kids, his friends.  It was senseless and horrible and a waste of a wonderful man.  But I was caught off-guard at how sad I felt and now this week I have discovered that another friend from high school is sick with lung cancer that has spread and his prognosis is not good.  I haven't seen this friend either since graduation day a lifetime ago, but he's someone who has touched my life, played a part in it - someone I grew up with.  He actually punched me in the eye in third grade on the playground when I was teasing him.  He's a part of my childhood and here he is in a struggle for his life.  How do we go from being ready to take on the world to getting our ass kicked by the world in what feels like the blink of an eye?  What I'm realizing is that the old cliche 'life is short' is actually true.  Life really is short.  So instead of just saying it like a punchline, I need to live it like the truth that it is.  Next time I'm afraid of trying something out of my comfort zone I am going to picture those two men and realize that I have to do it - now.  I can't put it off until I'm skinnier or making more money or the kids have graduated or any other excuse I tell myself.  There is a motto in my company - T.N.T.  today, not tomorrow - that is going to be my motto.  That has to be my motto.  I can't just keep shaking my head every Wednesday when my friend posts "Happy Hump Day!" and wonder how another week has passed me by so quickly.  The majority of my life has been pretty unremarkable - why?  What am I waiting for?  What are you waiting for?

Paging Dr. Crazy...

I don't know about you, but when too many good things happen to me, or I begin to count my blessings, I get a little worried that proverbial other shoe is going to drop.  I am sitting on my deck this morning, in awe of the beauty surrounding me - the trees, the sun shining, the animals, the wind rustling in the leaves - and knowing my family is safe asleep with food in the fridge and water from the tap, I begin to think about the people who don't have these things.... and then I feel, I don't know?  Guilty? Unworthy?  Like something bad has to happen to balance out my good fortune?  Then I begin to freak myself out.  Maybe we shouldn't go on the river today - someone is going to get hurt.  Why is that?  Why am I able to accept the bad or sub-par more easily than the good or great in my life?  When crappy things happen to me, I don't sit around and think, "ok, now something really great is going to happen to balance that out."

I begin to wax even more poetic (at least in my own head) that maybe those thoughts keep me from reaching my full potential.  If I really think about it, that is what I should feel guilty about.  Not using all the gifts and talents God has given me to their greatest extent.  Then another voice creeps in my head... "Wow, that's pretty arrogant of you - thinking you have gifts and talents...God is going to humble you."  What the hell is wrong with me?!

**Que? Ya-nee-poo-nee-my-you!

My baby girl turned 15 on Tuesday.  As most of you know, she was adopted from Russia when she was almost 7.  Watching her blossom and grow has been the best thing I could have ever done for my soul.  She is a beautiful child, inside and out.  Learning English as a second language though is tough, yet she has persevered and done an amazing job mastering this crazy language.  But I have to admit, listening to her learn English provided many hours of entertainment.  So much so, that her dad used to write down her sayings on his phone.  We called them YoungestChild'sName-isms. Here are some examples... Enjoy!

• glove department = glove compartment; as in, "Dad, can you get me some napkins out of the glove department?"

• go fish = gold fish, as in, "My favorite crackers are go fish crackers."

• Border Control = Border Patrol  "Were they arrested by Border Control?"

• workin' on a stinker....she tried to keep up with her gross brothers, 'nuf said

• "(How) To Kill a Mockingbird"  Three summers ago, my kids had to read To Kill a Mockingbird for their summer project with me.  Every time she referenced the book, she always threw in the "How" in front of the title.

• dandrum = dandruff, as in, "I think I might have dandrum."

• "don't throw it at me hardly, throw it softly" when her dad was teaching her to play catch

• "no eye-er" when she was playing the basketball game of HORSE with her dad and her trick shot was one with her eyes closed, it was a "no eye-er"

• "This burger is big...like an 'Inside Out' burger."  instead of In-n-Out burger.

• "Out of the bloom (blue)"...  "It just hit me out of the bloom!"

• whoppers = loppers  When trimming trees, "do you need help with the whoppers, Dad?"

• "You know what....whippity-doo!"  She still says, "You know what?" when she's mad.  I think whippity-doo was supposed to be whoopity-doo!

• And my most favorite -ism; about 6 months after she arrived in the States, we went to Knott's Berry Farm and we were in line for a ride and the guy next to us STUNK, she turned to me and said quietly, "he no good smell."

We don't get very many -isms from her anymore.  It's almost a secret victory for KC and me when she says one now and she gets very offended when we giggle and will turn to her dad and say, "DO NOT WRITE THAT IN YOUR PHONE!"  Love that kid.  She's really more like a young lady now.  My, how time flies. It seems like only yesterday when, after I explained what "being pregnant" meant, she patted my stomach and asked, "oh, you have a baby in there?"  Like I said, love that kid.


**For those of you wondering about the headline... Que? = What? in Spanish and Ya-nee-poo-nee-my-you  is the phonetic version of saying, "I don't understand you" in Russian.

Feeling a little like Ann Landers on the Lion King soundtrack, but that's a good thing...

I have really missed blogging.  I decided not to put my thoughts down in print for a while because I was pretty angry with a parent who was making my life a living hell and really disappointed about how people with a higher pay grade than me handled it and I knew that anything I wrote was going to be laced with sarcasm and nastiness.  Not that sarcasm and nastiness don't have their place....I was just afraid it would consume me and I wouldn't be able to write anything but.  That would get old quickly and you wouldn't want to read, and I wouldn't want to write, my blog anymore so I decided to take a break until I was in a better place (mentally and physically!)

I am now in Michigan for the summer. Being here brings me a lot of peace and happiness.  Partly because I'm with my family, partly because I'm in the cooler weather and I feel a ton better (Arizona summer heat and MS do not mix), partly because I'm not dealing with horrible parents right now, and partly because I'm in my comfort zone; this is where I fit in and can be myself.  Although, since arriving in the state I grew up in, I have discovered that living in Tucson for 20 years has rubbed off on me and I have become more of a hippie than I realized.  And I'm not even embarrassed about it. (Don't worry, conservative ones, I still have some beliefs that balance me out.)  I'm also feeling energized because I have started a new adventure selling It Works! products.  I used them, loved them, and knew I would feel confident selling them.  I'm not going to try to convince you of the products' merits here but have found people's reactions, when learning of my new endeavor, fascinating.  Some aren't interested in learning about them right now, some are excited to use them, some think I'm hawking snake oil, and the one I find most odd - some seem to be threatened that I'm trying to change my station in life.  When I pondered this further, it seems there are always people who, whenever anyone wants to make a change for the better in their life, take the attitude of  "Who do you think you are? Don't upset the status quo."  Why is that?  I guess it's human nature, I'm sure I've been guilty of doing it but as I've been on the receiving end of that mentality recently, I've been (over) analyzing it and have decided that maybe people think there is a limited supply of good fortune.  I don't think there is a finite supply of success - or love; just because I am successful doesn't mean that I've taken that away from someone else. Nor if I love my husband with all my heart, does that mean that when my children came along, I had to love him less to be able to love them.  If anything, I think loving them made me love him more.  So, me really going for it with this opportunity and being successful will mean a windfall for me, as well as many people around me.  When I buy a new car, build a new house, need higher insurance limits, acquire beautiful art and furniture, hire a cleaning service, get more frequent haircuts, manicures and massages, go to yoga daily, travel more often, and donate more money to charity, many, many people benefit but I can't identify anyone who loses.  This is a good reminder for me.  When others accomplish their goals, I don't lose.  If anything, I win because they will be more apt to try my products (and when they try them, they'll love them and will continue to buy them!  sorry, couldn't resist.) so it's important to root for everyone!  It keeps the good energy circle going - the circle I want to be a part of.  So good luck to any of you contemplating change.  I wish you success and will be genuinely happy for you when you achieve it!  Now go out and do it!  Another good reminder for me.

Still flare free.... bummer?

Today was my bi-annual neurologist appointment.  After answering my usual page worth of questions that I have thought of in between visits, my doctor proceeds with the normal exam....

Follow my finger, look at my nose - can you see my fingers moving (as he moves them almost out of my peripheral vision), squeeze my fingers, pull my arms, and my least favorite, touch my finger - your nose - then my finger again.

I hate that one because if I've had caffeine that day, my finger shakes and he will say with glee, "uh oh, you have a tremor - we need to watch that."  No doc, I just have a Diet Coke addiction.... I purposefully didn't have a soda at lunch and breezed through the routine with no tremor.  I notice him frowning.  I then have to do the drunk walk - walk a straight line, heel to toe.  "Your balance is perfect," he begrudgingly remarks and then he pulls out the reflex hammer and I know what's coming.  Before I was diagnosed, KC used to hit my knee and laugh hysterically because it would go flying.  We couldn't go anywhere in the car without him doing it to me so when the doctor taps my knees, I notice KC watching longingly.  My legs kick out wildly, as usual.  "That's the MS," he says cheerfully.  Yeah, I know; I guilted KC into not tapping my knees five appointments ago, when you first told me.  Poor Kase, those days are gone, buddy.

We discuss when my next MRI should be and he sadly remarks that I've been flare-free for almost three years and don't need another one for at least two more years, "unless you have another flare sooner," he says hopefully.  But then he sighs and adds, "Other than your reflexes, you are completely without symptoms."  Why the disappointment, doc?  I want to tell him that sometimes there are days that I actually even forget I have MS but instead I feel obliged to say, "I know, I feel great but I worry there is a flare coming around the corner."  He perks up.  "You're probably right," he replies.  But then, he adds the obligatory, "but things look really good, so you could go for a long time without having one."  I swear I heard him say under his breath, "but it's doubtful."  Let's just order the wheelchair now.

After the appointment, KC and I debrief.  Strangely, he didn't see the appointment transpire that way.  "Great news, huh?  Let's go celebrate." So glad he surprised me by showing up at the appointment or I'd have come home and crawled into bed.  The appointment really did go well, but I won't be satisfied until he tells me I'm cured or at least, don't ever have to worry about another flare.  I think KC knows that and that's why he showed up.  So instead of crawling into bed, I went to the Cheesecake Factory with my family.  I liked that so much better.  Besides, my birthday is in two days so there will be plenty of time for crawling into bed with the covers over my head in full-on pity party mode.

An oldie but...

This is an oldie (not that old, btw) but it still applies.

In exactly one month I turn 40.
Forty.
Four-tee.

A friend from high school had a book published and a reviewer described him as being middle-aged. Middle-what??? That was my first 'blow to the stomach' moment with this looming birthday.

I'm very conflicted with this. I look at my peers who are 40 and frankly, think they look great. Not what I envisioned 40 to look like when I was 20. But then I realize that if I were to ask some 20 year olds today about those peers, they'd say something different. It truly is all about perspective. I think I look okay; not Jennifer Aniston 40 but not Bea Arthur (when she was 40) either. But it's much more than about how I look because if I put some more effort (and possibly money) into it, I can change that. It's about the sand in the hour glass.

I have to accept that there are things that I said I was going to do that I did not do; some of them I really planned on doing and some of them I only daydreamed of doing. The fact that I no longer have the option is what I'm mourning. Some things I probably lost the option with a long time ago (like that Olympic medal) but this big birthday makes me face it. I think the problem is when you're little, you dream of what you're going to do when you grow up; heck, people ask you about it, on a weekly basis, so you think about it, a lot. But while you're in your twenties, nobody ever says, "what do you want to be when you become middle aged?" so you don't think about it. And then, it's here. And I'm not ready.

I think I need some serious beach time to contemplate this next chapter.

Ugh. "Middle-aged"?

Old?! I am not!

I watched the movie, 17 Again, about a 40-something man who magically gets transformed back to the age of 17.  There's a scene where the younger version of the character (Zac Effron) looks at his body in amazement and exclaims how great he feels.  I had never consciously noticed not feeling good anymore, but when I started thinking about it, that's probably a fair assessment.  When did that happen?  Then the next day, I went to yoga and there were poses I used to do in high school every day before practice without a second thought but when I attempted the pose two days ago, my body said, "uh, old lady, you haven't done this in 20 years, are you kidding me?"  How fitting that I have a birthday coming up. I'm kind of past being depressed about the actual number changing, I'm really more sad about the time I have left running out.  I read somewhere about the possibility of humans living (healthily) to 140.  One hundred more years!  I would have no excuses not to do everything I want to do!  I think I could still do most things I want now but I find myself dismissing doing them on account of  "I'm too old."  I'm too old to start a business, I'm too old to make a career change, I'm too old to learn a new language, I'm too old to have a baby, and the list goes on.  Then I ask myself, "When did I become old?" because, truthfully, I don't think of myself as old.  Maybe I'm not really too old, but damn, I am too tired.  Since the big day is fast approaching, I can say with certainty that this isn't the last entry about the subject.

Ditch Digger with Traveling Pants?

The grading quarter ended Friday so all my children have been in a mad dash to tie up loose ends in their schoolwork to try to raise any grades they can.  Middle Kid, oh Middle Kid... he decided he would start reading his book last weekend for his book report due the following Wednesday, buuuuttttt, he hadn't gotten a book from the library yet - he thought that would buy him another day of freedom from having to start it.  I looked at his list of approved books and realized I owned several of the titles, including  Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, a favorite of mine (the second and third books of the series, not so much).
"Here."  I handed MK the Sisterhood book.
"Mom.  Really?  No."
"It's an easy read.  You don't have time anymore.  Sorry."
"You have Treasure Island, I'd rather read that."
"You read the first chapter of Treasure Island, then come talk to me about it and we'll see."
He read the first chapter and, while he said he liked it, realized it wasn't going to be read in a week's time.  Traveling Pants it is.

When will I learn?  He didn't freakin' read the book.  He went to Spark's Notes and got the gist of the book and then proceeded to b.s. his way through his report.  He didn't even have the sense to watch the darn movie.  Middle Kid, Ditch Digger, Extraordinaire.  Or maybe not.  Maybe he learned more from his ability to bullshit than he would have ever learned from the book.  Middle Kid, politician.  Ugh, no.  I think I'd rather have him dig ditches.  Let's try this again, Middle Kid, Salesman of the Year.  Mmmmm, can't really see it.  Middle Kid, Typical Teenager So Quit With the Worrying, Mom.  Yeah, that sounds right.

Let the ass chewings begin!

Last night, middle child had a drumline competition in Phoenix where their performance time was TEN THIRTY p.m. (yeah, I said the same thing you just said) so he wasn't expected back at the school until 1:30 a.m.-ish.  Middle Kid (MK) has been struggling with his grade in physics class, as in, he's been struggling with deciding he should do the work to earn the grade, so we've been helping him in the motivation department.  Part of that includes taking possession of his cell phone.  Since he wasn't going to be back in town until early in the morning, KC gave him his phone back for the day, along with $20 for food.
Having children is not cheap and we're like many families in America today- our income has decreased rather than increased in recent years but our expenses have done just the opposite.  Because of this, we've done some trimming where we would feel the least amount of pain - dropped the satellite package to fewer channels, sold the convertible that only seated two, became coupon clippers and weekly circular scourers, and dropped the bells and whistles on the home phone package so it is just for local or emergency calls since we have free long distance on our cell phones.  We've been very upfront with the kids about our financial situation and have explained the changes we've made along the way, including NO LONG DISTANCE on the home phone, unless it's an emergency.  Well, MK's girlfriend originally lived in Indiana and her dad still lives there and provides her with her cell phone so it's an Indiana number.  You know where I'm going with this, right?  Since we took away MK's cell phone, and he's a 15 year old boy with raging hormones, he's going to talk to his honey one way or another.  When I got home from work yesterday, I opened the home phone bill to discover it was double what it should be due to long distance charges.  Middle Kid was in Phoenix so the ass chewing would have to wait until, truth be told, probably the morning because 1:30 a.m. was gonna be tough for me to even be awake, let alone fired up and awake.  And, as long as we're being honest, KC was probably going to be the only one awake when MK sent a text asking to be picked up. 
About 10:30 p.m., the SWAT pager went off, again.  KC had just gotten back from a call out at 7 p.m. and had been kvetching at our late dinner about how much he'd been working lately.  This time he looked at the pager, got up and went in the other room with his radio, but instead of starting to get dressed when he came back in the room, he got back into bed.
 "What are you doing?  Aren't you going?" I ask.
"No." he replied as he hit his pillow and laid back down.
"Why aren't you going?"
"Because you won't pick our boy up at 1:30, you'll let him walk home."
For the sake of disclosure, we live two blocks away from the school - in a neighborhood one would definitely classify as 'safe' and in a climate one would call mild or temperate this time of year - so he could walk home just fine, but I would not make him walk when he called for a ride. Although it would probably cross my mind when I'm snuggled in my bed asleep at 1:30 in the morning.  Still, I feign offense.
"I would not!  Rude."
Just then, the pager goes off again.  KC looks at it, says a few cuss words and gets up.
"Full call-out?"  I ask.
He pulls his pants on, laces up his boots, leans over, kisses my forehead and says, "don't forget Middle Kid," then walks out.
I turn the volume on my phone up as high as it will go so I'll be sure to hear the 'ding' when I get a text and place the phone on my nightstand, right next to my side of the bed.  The next thing I know, Lilly is doing her 'wooh wooh' bark that she does when she's glad to see someone she loves.  I look at the clock, it's 2 a.m.  Discombobulated, I look at my phone.  No text from MK; did he get a ride from a friend?  I get up and go out to the kitchen where there is no middle child but KC is home, stripping off all his gear. It usually takes him a little while to wind down when he gets home from work so I say to him,
"Oh good, you're home.  You can pick up MK."
"He's not home yet?!"
"Haven't heard from him," I say as I head back to bed.
At four o'clock in the morning, KC finally comes back to bed.
"Uh, dumbass, next time you tell someone his kid isn't home yet, you might want to check the kid's bed to be sure of that information.  I've been texting him since I got home and when he still hadn't responded after two hours, I started going through the questions in my head that we ask parents when we go to take a missing child report.  I went into his room and whaddya know, there he was, sound asleep."
"Oh honey, I'm so sorry," I mumble as I roll over and doze back off.
Looks like Middle Kid isn't the only one getting his ass chewed in the morning.

There's an app for that

How did we ever survive before technology? I find myself wishing I could rewind conversations I'm having if I didn't hear or didn't understand what was said. I hate watching TV in hotel rooms - there's no DVR to pause or rewind when my husband is talking to me. I pay bills when I'm lying in bed and I experience a sense of panic if I'm out and forget my phone. It wasn't always this way. When my daughter was making her case to get a cell phone one of her reasons was "what if a stranger tries to abduct me?" After "run fast" wasn't a good enough answer for her, I replied that her dad and I made it through childhood just fine without one. She reminded me that we also taped songs from the radio on cassette players and that times have changed. She now has a cell phone.
The young people I know are convinced that the Mayan calendar cycle ending in 2012 doesn't mean the end of mankind but rather the end of technology, which may as well be Armageddon for this generation. They don't have the experiences of what life is like without technology or even what it's like to answer the phone without knowing who is calling. While they are so fortunate to have access to unlimited information, 500 television channels, and the ability to communicate with anyone, anytime, day or night, without mom or dad knowing - remember getting in trouble if your friend called after 9 p.m.? - it's also kind of sad. There's something to be said for being unplugged; reading a book with paper pages, having to cruise town to find out where your friends are, or going out with friends - in person - and having actual face-to-face conversations. If schools were to ask students to solve problems without using any technology, I don't think many would be up to the task because any problem we can think of today 'there's an app for that' to solve it, so honestly, why would they be? But what happens to the kids (like mine) who don't have smart phones yet?
I found one of those cassette tapes from days gone by. For laughs, we played it but I couldn't think of the name of the song being played. With a tap on my phone, we learned the name and artist in 15 seconds because there's an app for that. I sense smart phones in my children's futures. But I think I'll wait until after December 2012, just in case.

Listen, jerk...

Have you ever dealt with people who would say the sky was green if it meant they could disagree with you? I have recently and I walked away irritated and in a bad mood for the rest of the day. Why do some people just have to do that, like it's their energy source? Not only does it put me in a foul mood but then I replay the conversation over and over in my head, so much so that it continues sapping my energy days after the thing is done and over with (as evidenced by me blogging about it today). I hate that. So, dear readers, how do you combat the soul suckers in your life?

So I adopted a rock star...

My daughter was adopted from an orphanage in Russia when she was almost 7 years old.  She has hemiparesis caused by cerebral palsy.  We don't think about it very much, it's just part of who she is; much like her black hair and black eyes.  She tries not to let it affect her, although sometimes it's out of her control.  She is not the fastest soccer player or the kid who is picked first to play kickball.  But the bigger picture is she always plays, she never shies away from anything. My Dear Daughter is a teeny, tiny girl with a very big voice and a big personality to match. 
In her middle school PE class, she has to run a weekly 1.5 mile cross country course, called The Ram,  under 24 minutes.  She comes home every Friday to report on her time and I'm ashamed to admit but I usually let it go in one ear and out the other.  Yet every week she lets me know.  One day I asked her how other students do and was quite surprised to learn that there are some kids who often don't finish under the 24 minutes.  That got my attention.  Here is my kid who, every week, goes out and gives it her all, regardless of her physical obstacles.  Wow.  Then today, I learned that she was named the Ram Runner of the Week.  This kid knocks my socks off.  I wish I could take the credit but she is proof of nature vs. nurture.  I thank God that we were able to make her our daughter.  My only regret is that we didn't find her sooner.

Luke Skywalker Arrested

My oldest turns 16 tomorrow.  That blows my mind and it got me thinking about all the things my kids have done over the years to get in trouble, which led me to thinking about the bad things I did when I was a kid, which led me to thinking about how things are so different today than when I was a kid, the consequences are so much more extreme now.  Which then led me to think about maybe that's why parents overreact and instead of letting their kids learn the lesson, they defend them, along the way losing the opportunity to teach the moral of what's right and wrong.  (Yes, you just got the nickle tour of how my brain works... I'm not officially diagnosed ADHD, but, you see the thought 'trail'....)  I am ashamed to admit it, but I am guilty of being one of those parents.  Instead of embarassing my birthday boy by telling about one of his misdeeds, I'm going to share a story about my middle child.
We live in the desert; home to dirt, heat and cactus. Our house is older and on an acre and we have a lot of cactus, more than I would like to have.  I guess the technical term for several cactus is cacti.  Some cacti are not tall and beautiful like the majestic saguaros, they're more like weeds. You could burn prickly pear cacti and it would grow back with double the enthusiasm.  When the rainy season arrives some cacti fill up with so much water that they tip over, pulling up their roots.  We have a barrel cactus in our front yard that is held in place with cable because it did that very thing.  When a cactus is filled with water it can be soft, a little mushy, and almost like a ripe pineapple pinata. A rain filled cactus is like a gift from the gods to an 11 year old boy with an imagination.
It was in December of 2007 and we had just gotten a ton of rain.  The rivers and washes were flowing, streets were flooded, and there were cacti tipped over everywhere.  My 11 year old decided to go out and play in the backyard.  Go child; have fun, get dirty, breathe the fresh air!  Four days later, I was home sick from work when the doorbell rang.  It was our new neighbor, fresh to Tucson from the east coast, and he needed to show me something that my son had done.... Great, can't wait.  In between the back of all the houses in my neighborhood is a wash and when Middle Kid had been out playing in the rain 4 days earlier, he was playing Star Wars and Mr. East Coast Neighbor's poor prickly pear cactus was Darth Vader.  Lord Vader did not fare well against young Middle Child's light saber.  Now, had it been in the 1980s, my parents would have sent me over to clean it up, plant a new cactus, offer to sweep his driveway for penance and that would have been that but this was 2007 and Mr. East Coast watches America's Most Wanted.  My child was the devil and had to be stopped!  He was somehow under the impression that his weed - er, prickly pear, was worth $2,000 and that I owed him that much or he was pressing charges (a felony, according to him).  At that point, I said, "We're done here." and turned to walk back home.  This is when he said (and I swear I'm not making this up) that my child "needed help."  "Today it's sticks and cactus, tomorrow it's people and knives."  I spun back around, looked him dead in the eye and responded with two words, "He's eleven."  45 minutes later the police were at my door and paper arrested my 11 year old.  Of course my husband was not home or things would have gone vastly differently.  When the officer showed up, we sang like canaries.  When KC found this out, he shook his head and proceeded to tell me that I should have just shut my mouth and made them prove it.  I told him I didn't want to be "that parent" but after my boy was arrested, I wished I had been.  Feeling like that pissed me off for multiple reasons but I think the biggest reason was because instead of turning this into a life lesson for my son about stupid decisions and their consequences, I became what I loathe; the parent who finds excuses, does not hold her child accountable, and attempts to fix everything for him.  But I really didn't feel like I had a choice.  My barely double digits boy was arrested for fighting with a cactus.  Arrested!  As in, we were now in the criminal system.  Sorry, but we were going to fight this, to hell with the life lesson.  I had a surveyor out two days later to make sure it was actually Mr. East Coast's property and not the city's.  It was on the edge of Mr. EC's.  Damn.  My husband went to three different plant nurseries to get quotes on prickly pear cactus (although most people told me to just cut a paddle off one of ours, bury it in the ground and in no time, one would appear.  Weeds, I'm telling ya!  Weeds!)  The highest quote was $50 for the largest one they had.  Score one for us.  We talked to our friend who is a prosecuting attorney.  We talked to a lawyer.  Both were incredulous that the situation was allowed to manifest into what it had.  I was cautiously optimistic but I still lost five pounds in five days.  I couldn't sleep,  I was sick to my stomach and a wreck.  My child, a convict.  The day came for Middle Kid to go meet with a probation officer - I'm not sure why he never had an actual court date.  She was a sweet woman whose grandson whacked things in her backyard with a stick all the time and it wasn't because he "needed help", it was because he was a little boy.  She saw where the cactus was located in relation to the wash; he didn't jump a fence to get into the man's yard, the cactus was practically in the wash.  Most importantly, she recognized he was ELEVEN.  His punishment was he had to write an apology letter.  Done!  Had our new neighbor (who moved away about a year later) not been a crotchety old man who thought all cacti were protected species and who was convinced that all young people are speed freak vandals, he would have gotten an apology, his yard cleaned up, a new cactus, and his driveway swept. And my boy would have gotten a valuable lesson.  Instead, neighbor got a letter from a 6th grade boy with horrible penmanship saying he was sorry.  But, at that point, after all Middle Kid went through, he probably wasn't sorry.  He probably was daydreaming about the Halloween when he was 16 and able to go to the store and buy eggs and toilet paper and do the job right.  Maybe Mr. EC realized that and decided to get out of town while the gettin' was good.  But we're still not done with this, when Middle Child turns 18, we have to go apply to have his record expunged.
So, I get it, Mrs. Parent-That-I-Loathe.  Our society today doesn't let kids just be kids and screw up without throwing the book at them.  Poor Todd Peterson (sorry for throwing ya under the bus, Todd!) punched me in the eye in third grade for calling him Pee Pants Peterson.  I think he had to stay home one day from school and I'm sure he got his butt whipped by his parents; plenty of punishment.  But not today!  Today, if a kid gets in a fight at school, even elementary school, he's suspended long-term and subject to arrest.  Parents know this and instead of being able to teach their kid that fighting is bad, they have to worry about defending him legally so they can't work with the school while providing punishment at home, they're on the phone with their lawyer - over a playground fight.  Fighting kid learns that parents make consequences go away and he isn't accountable for his actions.  And I also get it, Little Couch Potato Johnny.  Any time an adult sees a kid outside playing, he calls the cops.  It's easier to just stay indoors and play video games.  Ugh.  It's hard to advocate for fresh air when arrest is the possible end result.  I hope this pendulum starts to swing the other way but I don't see that happening any time soon.  We now call for people to be fired for any mistake they make.  I think it may be that people don't know how to spell reprimand, so it's easier to just go with "FIRE HIM!"  But, it goes hand-in-hand with arresting Johnny for fighting on the playground (or Middle Kid for kicking Darth "prickly pear" Vader's ass.)

Oh, the Grammy Awards with teenagers... such an interesting experience

Sorry for the week off - I was in Las Vegas!  I was planning on blogging about that adventure and then I sat down by my daughter who was watching the Grammy Awards.  If you want to feel archaic, watch an awards show with a 14 year old.  The following are excerpts:

Bruce Springsteen opened the show.  I exclaim, "Oh, the Boss."  My daughter looked at me and said, "What?  Who is he the boss of?  I've never heard of him."  Gut punch #1.

After the opening with the flashback of Whitney Houston singing, I Will Always Love You, I asked Dear Daughter if she knew any other Whitney Houston songs.  She replied, "Well, yesterday at Nana's when the news kept playing stuff about her, it showed some songs from, like, 1916."  Excuse me?  19-when?  "I mean like 1960, 1970, you know, when she was really famous." Gut punch #2 

Foo Fighters take the stage and within 10 seconds she announces, "They're already boring me.  Have I heard anything by them --  that I would like?" I try to explain their Nirvana origins and I'm met with, "What's Nirvana?"  For reals?!?  Then she adds, "They could have dressed a little nicer."  I decide I'm not even going to try to explain grunge, it will just give me a headache... In 1992, I definitely did not think someday I'd have to give a tutorial on the Seattle Sound to my child.  RIP Kurt Cobain, I apologize if you are rolling over in your grave right now.

KC walks in while Rhianna is performing and asks (to piss her off) "Who's this loser?"  Oh dad, you're so... so... so.....stupid.... Then Chris Martin takes the stage.  "Coldplay?  Who?"  He also was boring.

My middle child enters right as the Beach Boys start.  This is a kid who has gone to a Beach Boys concert; he loves music and he comments, "Wow, they're old."  Blasphemer!  Ok, wait, yeah they were old when I was a kid, so I'll give him that.  Daughter comments, "IF they're not lip-syncing, they're pretty good for old guys."  There's hope.  Then, Stevie Wonder comes on and says something about Whitney Houston being in heaven.  Middle Child, who was at a band competition all day yesterday and doing homework, allegedly, during the opening, says, "Wait, who is Whitney Houston?"  Dear Daughter says, "Yeah, I didn't know who she was either."  Hope dashed.  Middle Kid did know who Stevie Wonder was though. (Dear Daughter, however, not a clue.)

Sir Paul McCartney comes on and music loving - including The Beatles - son asks who he is.  When I shoot him a look, he back pedals and says he knew he was from The Beatles, he just didn't know what role he played.  Uh, the freakin' singer/song writer role, kid.

Taylor Swift, damn that girl is talented.  Daughter knew everything about her.  The announcer lets us know that Katy Perry and Adele are coming up and daughter says, "It's about time! We're finally getting to the good people."  I am taking solace in the thought of her explaining to her daughter who Adele, Taylor Swift and Katy Perry are.

You're only as old as you feel... or as your mom tells you you are...

I refuse to tell my children how old I really am.  I don't see why they need to know.  I don't know why anyone needs to know, frankly.  I'm old enough to buy wine, vote, and enter into contracts - that's really all you need to know; beyond that, you're just being nosy.  For some reason, this drives my mother crazy and she took it upon herself to tell my kids my real age (which I have since denied and chalked it up to Nana being a little senile.)  Lately, I've noticed I've been more forthcoming with my oldest on our drives to and from school and he's somewhat shocked to learn my real feelings about some things and has seen this as an opportunity to inquire about that off-limits subject.

Eldest son: So, you really didn't like Mrs. *Smith when I was in elementary school?
Me: No, I thought she was mean and grumpy.  She should have retired 10 years before she taught you.
Eldest: You always said she was a great teacher and how much you liked her!
Me: Well, of course I did!  I had to be the example, I'm the grown-up.  You still needed to be respectful to her and if I would have let you know I didn't like her, you would have thought you didn't have to be.
Eldest: That makes sense, I guess.  What about Mr. *Jones?  Remember when he told me there was no Santa Claus?
Me: I wanted to go kick him in the nuts, I was so mad.  I mean, who tells someone else's kid something like that?  What an ass.
Eldest:  Wow, you are always so nice to him.  What else don't I know?
Me: I'm not sure, nothing comes to mind.

He sees this as his opening.

Eldest: Are you really **30 years old, like Nana says you are?
Me: No, I don't know why Nana continues to lie to you about that.
Eldest: Mom, I think you really are 30.

He then goes through some simple math.  All of a sudden my B average math student has become Sir Isaac Newton, math genius:  You're 8 years older than your sister, and she's **22.  You graduated in 1999.  You got married when you were **13 and you and dad have been married for 17 years....

I tell him that his calculations are wrong, that I'm the same age as his father, and ask him if he put his breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.  He tells me yes and we both pretend to believe each other while changing the subject.  There are just some things we don't need to know right now.  Would it have made any difference had he told me the truth?  It wasn't like I was going to turn around so he could actually take care of his dishes.  I'll discover the truth in the afternoon when I get home, unless he calls his sister and bribes her to do it for him before we get home, then I'll never be the wiser.  Same with my age. He can have his suspicions, but until he really needs to know (like when I'm dead) he can just pretend to believe me. When it matters is when he'll know for certain.

So, does it make a difference that I'm a few years older than I tell my children - and anyone else rude enough to ask?  Does it change anything?  Exactly!


*Names have changed, for obvious reasons
**Ages have been changed, because it's none of your damn business

I've got a lot of Pep and Zip

Mutt

After Lil Bit went to her forever home, I brought home a white terrier mix with a wild underbite.  His name was Pepe and he was full of piss and vinegar.  I also brought home a little, elderly chihuahua who weighed all of 5 pounds; his name was Mutt.  I loved Mutter Butter.  He was so sweet and mellow.  Pepe, on the other hand, just wanted to play - all the time.  I would wake up at 4:30 in the morning to him playing fetch by himself with his tennis ball.  He would toss it in the air, let it bounce down the hall, then chase after it and sliiiide, occasionally crashing into the wall.  He also liked to bite feet, particularly toes, and he would grab my pant legs as I would walk down the hall, tripping me from time to time.  He would 'steal' water bottles, socks, slippers, anything he could carry and he loved to unroll the toilet paper from the holder.  He also liked to nip at my shirt, while bouncing up and down, and he would chew on my fingers and ankles whenever he got the chance.  While this was done playfully, it still was uncomfortable and sometimes actually painful!  When he would try to bite the jiggle part of my arms, I would hold him at arm's length and then he would then try to bite my wrists.  He was exhausting.  Pepe and Mutt stayed a few weeks before Mutt went back to his original foster, who ended up adopting him.  Pepe became a regular at Saturday Petsmart adoptions but no one was showing any interest.  One weekend, there was a new boy; a scrawny little chihuahua named Zippy and man, oh man, did he give Pepe a run for his money.  Those two played all day, nonstop.  Chewing, biting, wrestling, barking, and nipping.  I decided if Pepe or Zippy didn't get adopted that day, they were both coming home with me because those two wore each other out.  Turns out, neither did and they continued their play session at my house.  Pepe slept until 7 a.m. the next morning; he hadn't slept through a sunrise the whole time he'd been with us.  The minute he and Zippy woke up, however, they were back at it.  Frank would occasionally join in but it was always short-lived.  Daisy would just bark at the two as they streaked through the house and Lilly found a spot out of the way. 

Zippy

Fall Break was fast approaching and we always go to Michigan, as it's my absolute favorite time of year there.  The leaves are beautiful, the air is crisp and I can wear sweaters, something I can't do in Tucson since it's still well over 100 degrees in October.  This year, however, I began to wonder if going was such a good idea.  I worried about how we were going to travel across the country with five dogs.  It's kind of funny how easy the decision is when you really don't like any of the alternatives.  We loaded up the suburban, piled in the kids and dogs, and away we went.  About five hours into the trip, Pepe vomited all over me.  The night before, he had gotten into the Halloween decorations and ruined my fake bats and scorpions.  That explained why there was a bat head in my lap and scorpion legs all over my sweatshirt.  And Lilly hadn't barfed yet so I feared the fun hadn't even started.  Luckily, that was the end of the puke for the rest of the trip.
We made it to Michigan and it was chilly!  It was awesome.  Unfortunately, we don't have a fenced yard in Michigan like we do in Arizona, so every time one of the canines had to go out, someone had to go with them.  There is nothing sadder than an underweight chihuahua on a cold Michigan morning trying to pee while shivering uncontrollably.  Frank handled the cold surprisingly well.  He was kind of an old pro in Michigan and he surprised everyone in my family because he had turned into a really well-behaved boy, which was quite different than how he had behaved in the summer.  Pepe took his place as the rotten dog.  He barked at everyone, wouldn't mind, was bossy and rude and just was an overall stinker.  And I loved him.

Pep

Our vacation flew by and it was time to go back to Arizona.  By this time I had pretty much made up my mind that I was going to adopt Pepe, and probably Zippy too, but I knew it was going to be a delicate dance getting KC to agree.  I managed to make up excuses for a few weeks about why the dogs weren't going to the adoption events with me but eventually they had to go to one; this was right around Thanksgiving.  As we were getting ready to go, KC said something about how he hoped Pepe got adopted.  I got mad and began to pout.  How could he not love him as much as I did?  I left the house in a huff.  He called me on my cell and inquired what my problem was.  "I'm just on my way to get my heart broken," I dramatically replied.  He gave me the "this is what you agreed to" speech and we ended the call.  About an hour and a half later, he called me and said, "bring that damn dog home, I don't want your heart to be broken," and that is how Pepe officially became Pepper and how I came to love my husband even more than I already did.  About two weeks later, I made Zippy official too, but I didn't tell anyone.  Pep really did need Zip and vice versa; those two were still playing from sun up to sundown.  I figured I would just keep taking him with me on Saturdays and no one would be the wiser.  Of course, my conscious got the better of me and by Wednesday of the following week I had spilled my guts.  KC wasn't surprised at all, he has been with me for almost 19 years and knew it was just a matter of time.  And he agreed that they really are two peas in a pod. 

I'm happy to report that Zip has put on some weight, Pep still steals socks, then acts like he's killing them when he growls and shakes them ferociously, and they still wear each other out.  I decided that I am a permanent foster failure and can't bring home any more dogs.  I still go to the adoption events and lately, I have been kicking around fostering again; but they can only stay a week at a time or else I will get attached.  I'm hopeless.

Let's talk about MS

I'm pausing in telling the story of how Pepper came to be our dog...

I had a dear friend call me this weekend to talk to me about something she had come across that she was certain would help combat my MS.  Now, I have had someone tell me about a treatment, diet, or supplement that is supposed to be a cure at least once a month since I became sick two and a half years ago so I sometimes am not the most patient or gentle person any more when told of these amazing therapies.  I love this woman dearly and know she only has my best interest at heart so I had to step back before I responded. After explaining that I was very happy with my current treatment, she commented; "you know, you never read about people who are dealing with the disease successfully." and that got me thinking.  I haven't written much about my relationship with MS and when I started examining why, I realized that I didn't think I had much to tell.  I also think I felt guilty, like I wasn't sick enough to warrant telling my story; I have to really be suffering before I have anything worthwhile to say.  Then, I realized I was doing such a disservice to people who don't know much about the disease, or more importantly, may be newly diagnosed and are scared about what having MS in 2012 may mean.  MS treatment has come a long way and it no longer means a life certainly destined for a wheelchair, or worse.

I was "unofficially" diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in July of 2009.  I had been experiencing intense pain in my eyes and my husband made me go to the doctor - that morning.  Then my doctor got me an appointment with an ophthalmologist that same afternoon where I was diagnosed with optic neuritis.  I asked my ophthalmologist what caused that and she said, "well, usually, MS."  Um, what?  In the words of Vizzini from The Princess Bride, "Inconceivable!" I can't have MS and I walked down the stairs from her 2nd floor office, rather than take the elevator, as if that was going to prove I didn't have the disease.  My doctor got me in for an MRI the next day because I was leaving the next night to go to Las Vegas for the 4th of July weekend.  I learned that my MRI indicated "probable MS" while sitting in a Flamingo hotel room. Needless to say, I don't remember much else of that weekend.  I came back to Tucson and was given a referral for a neurologist who I could not get an appointment with until the end of August.  The end of August.  How on earth was I going to stay sane until the end of August? 

Unfortunately, I spent a lot of time researching Multiple Sclerosis on the internet while waiting for that appointment.  I read about diets, vitamin deficiencies and supplements, metal allergies, viruses, immunization reactions, stem cell research, CRAB drugs, blood brain barriers, remylination research, Big Pharma conspiracies, and so much more.  I have a friend who is a doctor and one of the first things he said to me when I told him my situation was, "stay off the internet."  Oh, how I wish I had taken his advice.  I was more confused and scared than ever.  I wanted to have some control over this and became convinced diet was the answer.  I went on a strict, no sugar, caffeine, gluten or processed foods diet and was adamant about following it.  I even ate salmon weekly (and I hate fish).  I lost 20 pounds in six weeks and yet I still felt terrible.  I was exhausted all the time; I felt drunk, dizzy, fuzzy and weak.  Was this how my life was going to be from now on?

The time for my neurologist appointment finally arrived.  KC and I went in and the doctor spent over an hour answering our questions and discussing treatments.  He told me I would have to have a lumbar puncture, a.k.a. spinal tap, in order to be 100% sure of the diagnosis.  Gulp.  Spinal tap?  I probably should mention that I had a horrible fear of needles.  I would feel faint whenever I had to have blood drawn or get a shot.  One time I passed out when I was having an IV put in.  The thought of having a giant needle inserted into my spine, literally, made me cry.  I'm happy to report that the procedure itself was a piece a cake, it was the days after while the hole in my spine was healing that were a bitch.  The results of the spinal tap made it official, I have MS.  That was in September, 2009.

My doctor initially prescribed Rebif for my treatment but my insurance company said, "sorry, she's taking Beta Seron."  I was mad.  All the drugs (available in 2009) are administered by injection but Rebif is taken every three days while Beta Seron is injected every other day.  I didn't know how I was going to be able to give myself a shot once, let alone every other day for possibly the rest of my life.  The thought was almost surreal and the irony that the thing I feared so much was going to be the thing that helped me was not lost on me. 

I began my treatment and I started to feel better, not nearly as tired and weak as I was, but my vision was still very impaired so I went on a three-day intravenous treatment.  I panicked when having the IV inserted the first day, but it got easier each day and more importantly, the treatment worked.  A short time after, my vision came back, almost completely.  Other than the occasional day, what I now refer to as 'an MS Day' when I feel exhausted or my equilibrium is off, I am flare free and have been since November, 2009.  I have responded to the medicine beautifully.  Except my body is not beautiful where I have injected myself.  I jokingly say I look like the Spotted Beast from the cartoon Maggie and the Spotted Beast because I have big red spots all over my bum, thighs, stomach, and arms.  But it is a small price to pay.  Speaking of small prices.... MS drugs are not.  I am fortunate and grateful that my husband has good insurance through his job.  Beta Seron would cost more than I make each month otherwise.  As I began to feel better, I got lazier about following my diet.  I am now convinced, since I was basically the guinea pig, that neither diet nor supplements are a substitute for my medication.  I have not noticed a difference when I change how I eat; at least not as far as the MS is concerned.

The pain from optic neuritis went away in a few days and I probably would have carried on without seeing the doctor, had my husband not actually dialed the phone to her office and handed me it and then driven me there for my appointment.  And my disease would have continued to progress unabated.  The gods intervened and I was given a diagnosis - crappy as it may be - and I was started on drug therapy that has slowed the MS; my last MRI showed no new damage.  So I can feel sorry for myself, which, to be fair, I did for a little while, or I can accept it, face it, take care of myself and be grateful that I am sick at a time when there is effective treatment and a hope for a cure in the future.  My ophthalmologist said something to me that put it in perspective when I went back for a follow-up visit after my first visit to the neurologist.  She told me that now I know what is wrong and I can begin to deal with it, so, deal with it. (My eye doctor is a very no-nonsense lady.)

So, in short, I have MS and it has changed my life, most definitely, but it has not ruined it.  Change can be good.  I have learned to not sweat the little things and to take better care of myself.  I appreciate my husband and friends more than ever and make a more concentrated effort to enjoy my children.  I do these things because Multiple Sclerosis came into my life.

Those horrid, evil chipmunks.

"I love you, KC.  

Every last week in May, we load up the suburban with golf clubs, luggage, three kids, two dogs and at least one box of Avon and hit the road to Michigan for the summer.  2011 was going to be different because we had just adopted Frank, so we would be traveling with three dogs instead of two.  Lilly and Daisy are old pros (other than Lilly gets car sick) and are excellent travelers so we were a little apprehensive about how Frank was going to travel.  Turns out, we had nothing to worry about, as long as he was next to KC, he was just fine.  Of course, after 34 hours of traveling, the adoration got a little annoying.

Damn you, chipmunks!

Frank spent most of the summer being tormented by the squirrels and chipmunks in our yard because he couldn't figure out how to get down those damn deck stairs to catch them!   He would sit as still as he could and watch their every tormenting move.  It soon came time for  KC to leave to go back to Arizona for a few weeks for work and Frank turned into the naughty demon dog from hell.  He would piddle in the house while looking right at me and then growl at me when I scolded him. When KC came back he turned into the angel dog again so I was accused of making things up when I would tell him what a stinker his little prince was while he was gone. 

Lil Bit

We sadly closed up the house and returned to Arizona just in time for school to start in the beginning of August.  I touched base with APR to let them know I was back and ready to foster and came home with a furry cock-a-poo girl named Lil Bit.  I know, I know, I wasn't crazy about the name either.  APR got her when her owner, who had had dementia, passed away, so it was the name she came with.  (Her future family would end up renaming her Sophie, a much better fit, in my opinion.)  Lil Bit was large and in charge and poor Frank didn't know what to make of it.  Fortunately, Lilly and Daisy are old and grumpy so nobody messes with them or face their wrath so Lil Bit soon learned to stay clear.  She had only been with us one short week before her forever family sent an email inquiring about her.  After we communicated back and forth, it was decided they would go on a trip they had planned in two weeks and then travel to Tucson from their home in Phoenix to meet her. Unfortunately, in those two weeks she charmed us all and I began creating different scenarios in my head about why she wasn't going to  work out with her new family; they wouldn't know that although she barked at strangers, she wasn't really mean, or that she only liked to snuggle on the couch for a little while before wanting to get down, or that when she paced back and forth at the kitchen counter and then sat patiently it meant she was waiting for a treat.  Of course, those thoughts were ridiculous but I was convinced I was sending her to live with a crotchety, retired couple who were going to think she barked too much and end up tying her up outside all day.  Fortunately, I never voiced these doubts out loud but I felt them in the pit of my stomach when we were driving to meet her potential new family.  We walked into Petsmart at the arranged time and when her new mom saw her trotting towards her, she exclaimed, "Oh, is that my dog?!" and immediately started crying tears of joy.  She hugged her and told her how pretty she was.  They carried her around the store in a cart and bought her all sorts of new things; collar, leash, bed, toys, treats, you name it.  They talked to the professionals at the store about proper nutrition and grooming.  They were going to spoil her rotten!  I was so happy for her and a little ashamed of myself for worrying.  Admittedly, her leaving was bittersweet.   Knowing this adorable little creature was going to be given a second chance and I got to play a part in it was an incredible feeling but I was going to miss her.  I cried a little when they walked out and she looked back at me but I knew she was going where she belonged and that now another dog would be able to get a second chance.

Pepper and his pal, Zippy

The next one that got another chance is asleep right now on my bed.  He stayed too long and there was just no way I could part with him, or his partner in crime.

More on that next time.

It all started with a scrawny 6 pound poodle

Frank, fka Napoleon

The beginning of how Pepper came to be our dog....

One Saturday afternoon my husband, KC, dropped me off at a local shopping center to get my nails done and, if time, run to Target (okay, I will always make time for Target).  As it turns out, it was the day of the local high school’s prom so the people at the nail salon just laughed at me when I walked in without an appointment.  Realizing I had at least two hours before my husband would be done with his errands, I started walking towards Target.  Now, I love Target but even I was going to have trouble killing two hours there, so on the way was Petsmart with a sandwich sign out front that said, ‘Adoptions Today’.  I hadn’t had a puppy fix in a while so I went in, thinking I could just hold a few puppies and smell their puppy breath and I'd be good to go.  I met the lovely volunteers from Arizona Poodle Rescue (APR) and they began to tell me about their organization and all the dogs available for adoption.  I sat and held several puppies for at least an hour.  They were so sweet, cuddly and precious but I knew I wasn’t going to adopt one, I already had two at home, Daisy the Miniature Pinscher and Lilly, the Miniature Schnauzer, and I definitely did not have time to housebreak a puppy.  I expressed that out loud, part excuse, part 'don't try to talk me into this because my family won't go for it.'  That's when Rochelle, the fearless leader of the Tucson chapter of APR, casually said, “you know, you should consider fostering.”   Fostering!  Yes, that's the answer!  I thought, “I could sell this to my husband. We wouldn’t really be getting a new dog, but we’d be giving a dog a home until they found their forever home!  It's perfect!"  I called my husband, it’d been well over two hours so I thought he’d be ready, but asked him to pick me up at Petsmart instead of Target.  Oh, and come inside.  “Oh boy,” was all he said.  He showed up and I rapidly explained the merits of fostering, not pausing for a breath until I'd made my case about how we’d be a great fit; we live on an acre, there isn't a stitch of carpet in our house, our kids are older and responsible and can help, our dogs are older and mellow, and, and, and... we love dogs!  He asked Rochelle a few questions and then said, "what ever you want to do."  Yay!  No, wait!  Is this a trick?  Don't I have to do some more selling?  Why are you agreeing so quickly?  I decided not to question it and just be excited.  Which dog were we going to go home with?  I was honest and said we didn't really have time for a puppy.  Rochelle decided a little white poodle named Napoleon would be a good first foster for us.  He was a well-behaved boy who had been found as a stray.  When he was picked up he had wire wrapped around his privates and was incredibly matted.  Rochelle said he seemed grateful during the entire grooming process and never gave her any trouble.  He weighed just six pounds but easily needed to gain at least four more pounds, you could see every bone in his body; poor fella must have been without food for a while!  He was definitely cute; he had a puppy face even though he wasn’t a puppy.  My concern was that I had been trying to pet him all day and he didn’t want anything to do with me!  “He’ll warm up to you when he gets home,” Rochelle said.  So, we put a leash on him and with a spring in his trot, he pranced out the store with KC.

When we got home, it quickly became apparent that Napoleon had a crush on KC.  He would look at my husband like he was the maker of liver snacks and made sure he was sitting right next to him, wherever in the house that may be.  Couch, kitchen, bed, bath - it didn't matter. Sunday morning came and the new dog had slept in our bed but never made a sound nor moved all night.  And no accidents!  What a good dog!  The sun came up and I woke to a little white dog sitting next to KC's pillow, staring at him while waiting for him to wake up.  Apparently, KC didn’t wake up quick enough for him because Napoleon decided to kiss him awake.  It was very sweet and my 6'5" husband loved it, all the while pretending to hate it, of course.  That night, I overheard him tell the dog, “You’re such a good boy, if you really are housebroken, we might be in trouble.”

I went to work the next day and got a forward of an email that a woman had sent APR, inquiring about Napoleon.  As his foster mom, it was my responsibility to contact her and let her know all about him.  I knew KC was going to be sick to lose him so soon.  I called him with the bad news.  “Tess, I don’t think I can give him up,” was his reply.  “Are you sure about this?” I asked.  Without hesitation, his one word answer was, “Yes.” Oh dear.  Here I was, a brand new foster mom and I’m already screwing things up, they're going to hate me.  I called APR and explained the situation.  Surprisingly, they were very understanding (as I found out later, they all had "been there") and the following Saturday, we went back to Petsmart to complete the paperwork and pay the fee and become an official "Foster Failure."  Napoleon was renamed Frank and he is stubborn, sweet, and a little prince.  He continues to be KC’s baby while tolerating the rest of us.  Little did we know what adopting Frank would lead to…