Count Your Bessings

Lilly turned 3 today. I remember when Emma turned 3. We were in Tahoe. I remember when Nathan turned 3. He loved fire trucks. Now Lilly Bess's turn.

I should have videotaped her walk home from school this morning after we dropped the kids off. She slid down dirt piles. She peeked into holes in fences. She squatted down and told the ants in the anthill we pass "Ants, did you know it's my birthday?" When we got closer to home, she took a bow. I thought this was a nice life. An entire life lived to the fullest from school to home. All you really need is a baby in your life to see that everything is going to be allright. It already is allright. It's bursting, in fact, just on a regular dirt road, hanging out with someone who can't read or drive. She just follows along, and everywhere - adventure.

We played with her little friend Luke. They played fishing while I tried not to fall asleep in the chair at their house. Ate a really good salad. Went home and she wouldn't take a nap (I missed the nap window, hate that). So I made her feel bad until she came out looking for me saying "I sad. I want Mommy."

We played with kitties, went swimming. Then we went to get a microwave for 8 dollars from a guy name Slav from Bulgaria. He was moving to DC. Moose played with Lilly in the backseat, so she didn't mind sitting in there for an hour on her birthday. "Where we goin, Mom?" she asks.

When we came in from the microwave adventure, Moose and I pushed her high on the swing. We don't usually stop to do the swing, because we're rushing here or there. But today is her birthday. Right after we got off the swing, the sprinklers went off. Can you believe that?? She took off all her clothes and ran around in them. The sun going down, the air hot, the sprinklers misting a rainbow. Emma came home from baseball practice and ran around with her in her baseball hat. When sprinklers go on, you pretty much have to run in them.

Lilly Bess, the littlest shipmate on our wayward vessel. She loves bandaids, and mermaids. Swordfighting. Peter Pan. Baseball. I Peen (ice cream). She loves to wrap kittens in rope. She loves Emma and Nathan, like the sun rising right in front of her, each day. She knows she is a wonder.

I came into the bathroom tonight and Emma had forgotten to put the tub drain up to keep the water in. Lilly was laying in the empty bathtub and said "Mommy! The bathtub melted!"

Count your (Lilly) Bessings.

Like Chicken, Like Chris

I know people like to get Oscars, but once you've had a chicken named after you, your life has been truly recognized.

My friend Chris who lives across the country is now embodied by a black and white chick at our house. The chick was born on her birthday, so of course, it's Chris. This chick used to be tiny and nervous, and now it's more ballsy and nervous, which is sort of how Chris is herself. She's almost 2 months old, and a 2 month old chick is like a man-chick, with a little peeping voice, also like Chris.

The chick at this age really doesn't know what it is - too small for a fryer, too big for the baby Lilly to carry around in one hand. All I know is, the chicks love the horse. Chris Chick and her friend Gigi Chick (named after a dead beloved chicken eaten by racoons) follow the horse around. The giant, dinosaur horse with huge fat hooves who could stomp them. They think it's their mother. Peep peep. Run after him. Gather at his feet. Peep. Take a dust bath. Peep peep. Whoa, there's some corn. Run over to it. The other huge chickens peck them away. They circle away, bummer. No corn when you're the little guy. Wait, there's a piece.

Chris runs and gets it.

Against all odds.

Animal House

We figured out yesterday that we have 33 animals at our house. Even to me, that sounds like some of these animals need to be made into meals. Here's the breakdown.

1 horse
5 goats
3 sheep
3 bunnies
1 cat
7 kittens
4 dogs
4 fish
6 chickens

Wait, that's 34. I think. Technically, the horse/sheep/goats are paying customers. 7 kittens will be gone in two more months. 1 dog belongs to my mom. 1 bunny is a foster bunny, looking for a home. (Are you available?) So that takes us down to: 16

That's still too many.

Carpe Diem

Lilly fell on her head off the coffee table. I was right there, too, I saw her tipping and in the second it took her to fall I had a million thoughts, like I can get her, she's right there, she can't be falling, she never falls, wait, why aren't my arms working fast enough, why am I still sitting here like I don't care, it's happening.

Then there she is, scooped up in my arms, crying, that thump her head made sounding fake, echoing in my mind. Then there's the big purple lump, like a hunk of meat, rising off her forehead. Ice, Tylenol, she's healing, but how come I can't be The Flash, how come I can't make things Not Happen?

Ever since I fell off the horse, or watched the marble egg get dropped into the pool line, I have realized that things are going along SO well when nothing bad is happening. You don't realize how well things are going, right at this minute. You aren't on fire? You aren't chasing someone who stole your wallet? You aren't en route to the emergency room? Things are fucking great, man. This is your day.

Disclaimer

I perhaps shouldn't blog about people I'm working with. This is how I got fired from "Pensacola: Rings of Mold," the last tv job I had. Even though everyone in the office loved the manuscript that preceeded my prompt firing (okay not EVERYONE, it was slightly brutal to some), it seems when you have possibly ongoing relationships with new people, you perhaps shouldn't insult them in blog form. Assuming they may read this.

So I apologize in advance, and will take out a secret blog where I may write freely, and later make it into a television show. Or maybe I'll just keep writing here since I think I know the only two people who read me regularly. What Would Ricky Gervais Do? I look forward to your suggestions.

Work Horses

The new PTA is so badly organized, it's like a beautiful yet tragic ballet. I go to help out with the book fair and the lady who's supposed to be running it just never shows up. So it's me and the brain-fried PTA president (the fireman), who actually is alot of help. We do all the work, and the lady finally shows up later, and has one of those personalities like she's really efficient while in effect getting no actual work done whatsoever. Like, she looks clean and clear and yet her hands are not moving to set anything up. And she has no remorse. Like, wow, maybe I should've been here to help. It's more like we're an interesting movie going on that has nothing to do with her. In fact, she's going to leave now.

So anyway, me and Firestarter set everything up yesterday. Spent the whole morning in there while the baby wandered around taking down books and opening packages and destroying what we were doing. The In Charge Chick stopped by and wavered by the door, although seemed to take no interest in coming in and helping out with the project she was CHAIRING. Then just left. We stood staring. Then we laughed. Since the baby was tuckered out, I decided I wouldn't come back for the afternoon, but would instead leave a list of things they could do, like put up posters and make price labels and stuff.

I go this morning and we have Donuts for Dads morning where kids come in with their dad and have a donut and buy books. We sold 500 dollars worth of stuff in an hour. Me and the other PTA chief, the ex-cop. These guys are the most unlikely guys. They both look like they might have been recently run over by cars. These guys are actually wonderful. They should have their own stuffed animal likeness. Ex-cop is shaped sort of like my older brother, short, squat, comes in smelling of stale cigarettes and apologizing for being late, looking showered and asleep. He's like the way your gramma's house feels. Used, smoked, bright and dim at the same time,nothing challenging is going to happen here. He's an early in the week newspaper crossword.

So turns out Coppy can't read up close, so he keeps holding the books out at arms length to read them, so we take over the cash register, me reading the book prices, he punching the numbers into the register. Taking money. We work together like we've been touring the country for years.

After the Fair closes for the morning, I manage to see the In Charge Chick again and tell her the books I'm going to re-order. I also notice that no one put any of the posters up. Again, she seems interested, but takes no action. I see the pile of posters and say I'll do it. (The piece of me that is my dad, just nicely shove everyone out of the way and do it yourself. Make a joke while you're doing it, too. Then cross it off your list and have a donut.) Also there was supposed to be a poster for the 4th and 5th graders to sign up to volunteer at the Fair. Where is that, I ask In Charge Chick. Big Boobed girl-mom says "Oh, I made the poster." "Great!" I say. Then she says: "But it looked bad so I threw it away."

Hmmm. "Wow," I say. It's like I'm running a company with a handful of assistants that don't actually do ANYTHING. And they don't see the irony.

So I reach a new level of humor. Nothing, in effect, will get done.

Fireman and Coppy and I go outside to hang up posters. They trail me as I go from place to place, holding up the tape, playing with the baby, joking about stuff, and I realize this is the greatest experience of my morning. I belong here to these limping, haphazard fellows. These guys, these are the President and the Vice-President, dude. And they are mellow, slow, and they actually DO stuff. Best of all, they show up, with a sense of irony. Diluted, of course, by the sucking hole where education should be. Peppered with redneck, but still, they freaking show up and enjoy the work. Work horses. Like the carriage horses at my other job - huge, friendly, lethargic, but they're not quitters. They'll stay with you all day, and crack a beer with you when the work is done.

There's something to that.

Carnival Boobs I mean Booths

I ran back to the school because I had left something behind at the PTA meeting. The only people left inside the empty auditorium were the two dudes running the PTA (a firefighter with skin intact but most of his brain burned away) and an ex-cop who kept calling me "Cathy," and a new-ish mom with giant boobs sitting across the long table from them.

I picked up my water jug I had left and then couldn't resist going over to check out this newly formed threesome. One side of the table I knew was into firearms and women, and the other side of the table, more than ample woman. It was an adult movie set up.

The ex-cop asked me how my broken hand was healing after being dumped off of a mean pony a few months back. Then he launched into his story about breaking his foot by falling into a hole. The cast had hurt so much he sawed it off when he got home, stuck his deformed foot into the door and wrenched his foot back into place himself. Home medic - cost of surgery? Priceless.

I talked to large boobed mom, who looked about 14. She was a single mom who had three kids under seven, and none of them were in sight. Under the boobs maybe? I saw why she was sitting at the table with the two gentlemen in the long, empty wake after the PTA meeting. Better than going home to needy kids. And man, that shirt did not cover much. Her boobs looked like a giant boob swimming pool.

"Anyway, just here to get my water," I said, backing out as the conversation turned from broken bones to stun guns.

Can't wait to start those carnival planning meetings. I hope to man the stun gun booth.

Facebook Has Stolen My Friend

My friend from far away came to visit. He stayed three weeks. He's the ideal houseguest, quietly he rolls along, gentle to the kids, great at Legos, very smart, using interesting language, amazing artist, likes to study people. He can usually pinpoint the most interesting thing going on, and talk about it. Or sometimes we just watch "Extreme Loggers."

But something has changed in the 4 years since I saw him last. He's grown up maybe. We don't have the luxury of the daily or weekly friendship, where you hang out, grow up with the person. We have the accelerated version, so we have to injest our friendship in loaves. Starve until we meet again.

I guess the last time we knew each other he was more mine. Like, secretly. We were closer, we threw ourselves on each other. This time, 3 kids climbing on me. He has Russian girlfriend. We were more Jane Austen polite. So I missed that stir-fried love, take-out style that we once had. Although I'll take somewhat stiff parlor-room. I'll take anything, he's that worth it.

Since he's been gone (Nathan cried when he left), I've heard two sentences from him on Facebook. Facebook has become the dropped handkerchief that one catches and returns to the lady. Hoping for a connection.

I guess I'm old fashioned. Miss the gloves, the glint in the eye, the hope.

The Root of the Problem

I put off having a root canal for 2 years. Then, just like a miracle, yesterday was my lucky day. I could put it off no longer.

I put myself into the hands of some able Russians in Studio City. The dude gave me the first shot in the side of my face with, I'm pretty sure, a machete. Then he decided I needed a second shot, right in the roof of my mouth. You know, the spot where there's no skin. It's mostly bone. Needles LOVE to go into this area without pain. He pulled out a shot the size of his leg. You get the picture.

Okay so now he's numbed an area the size of Madagascar. All the natives are sleeping. Except for me, the one in my head. My mind is zinging, and he's assembling a whole mini-trampoline in my mouth. Some rings here, a stretched tarpolin there, it's all very complicated and that half a Vicodin I took from my recent hand surgery doesn't appear to be easing my nerves.

Then I have to keep my mouth open for one and a half hours. It's not so bad for the first hour, but then I unclench my feet and hands and start waiting for him to tell me I'm a good girl, it's almost done, but I get nothing. And the little sucker thing keeps sucking my breath away, I'm battling that thing to keep myself alive. My mom told me to picture my best vacation ever, to try and block out the whole experience of drills and noise and tooth packing material, and I can't think of one vacation I've ever had. Then I remember three things. Nathan born. Emma born. Lilly born. Those were some great vacations. Staying in my pajamas. People bringing me food. Little tiny babies that were mine. I see those moments, and I would smile, if things weren't hanging from my lips.

When my jaw has reached pain level 1000, they tag team and the other dentist comes in to finish the job. They sit me up. She tells me to tap tap tap my teeth. Easy for her to say. My jaw has the flexibility of a haunted house, boarded up for 30 years. I manage to look like I'm still coherent but life has a swirly look, with the white walls and the metal poles and alien lights hanging down. Then I slowly realize I AM done. It's done.

I stand up to go to the bathroom. "Thank you," I say kind of warbled to the tall Russian man-child who did my tooth. "My pleasure," he says with a kind of bow. I stare at him crazily then head to the bathroom. "My PLEASURE???" I mutter under my breath. "You have got some serious issues."

I then pay for what would have been a nice trip to Hawaii, and head out into the sunshine with my sunshiney 2 year old and Barry, who had spent a lovely two hours in the park with a dozen nannies and their charges.

I can eat and drink without cringing. It is a kind of miracle.

Tweak it, Baby

Do something different. This is what I learned from my friend Victor. Each day try to do something a little bit different. So you don't get rusty.

Don't Poke the One Eyed Pony

Don’t Poke the One Eyed Pony on the Side that She Can’t See

The day is blooming
The pony is moving
Grass is on our path
Fur is thick, riding a blanket
It’s okay that she can’t see

Who needs to see everything
One side fits all
I can see for us both
I can’t see ahead
Where she leaves me for dead
My finger bent wrong from the fall

All I wanted was to go faster
A little bit faster
She’s only the size of a dwarf
Retarded kids ride her
Kids with no leg muscles ride her
She’s safe, she’s a thousand years old

I kick the pony and she doesn’t go
Then she goes
Then I make a mistake
I poke her back there
Through the fat and the hair
And she doesn’t like poking
I think

The pony goes up
My brain starts to swirl
What’s happening
Why is this carnival Under me today
Time slows down
I can see there’s no way out
I’m up up and then down down down

The ground is hard
Not like in the movies
My air is scattered all on the ground
I can’t reach it , I can’t breathe
I’m dead but still breathing no breath
My lungs are pounded, stalled from the shock


The pony ambles nearby
Without me on top
Naked of me
I have to get up
Naked of me too
No more ponies I think as I walk

I look down at my hand
My fingers stuck together
That looks like it’s gonna hurt later
I get the pony back
Her eye still sealed shut
Something has sealed me apart
from myself

I lay in my bed my hand swelling
I made a mistake not just laying here
With my sleeping baby
Getting a pony, the safest pony
And now a fresh order of hand surgery

I go get an xray, I go to a doctor,
I spend bent handfuls and handfuls of cash
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be
I know how everything works out
I make sure everything works out
I’m the mom, can’t you see?

I’m on a gurney, the kids are up til 11
Coloring at the abandoned clinic
Cars rush by, the black doctor sticks pins in my hand
For 5000 dollars, I’m cured, he says

Heavy cast on my arm
For thanksgiving turkey and Christmas
I heave it around
I’m lucky I’m here
I’m lucky I’m HERE
I think as my hand starts to heal

Cast off amongst poor people
I go to County
The doctors are better, they’re 12
My hand is stuck in it’s cast curl
It can’t stop remembering
How to hurt and not to heal

I can’t make a fist, I can’t grab a tissue
I can’t clap or scratch or carry
I bend my hand, I have to bend where it hurts
I have to bend and stretch where I least want to

Don’t poke the one-eyed pony on the side that she can’t see
She has reasons she’s blind
A pirate battle, on a ship
Defending her honor, got a sword in the eye
Or in her corral she ran into a stick

I’m imperfect
I’m broken
I’m healing
I’m not
I’m bent
And I’m angry
I’m broke
Wait I’m loved

I hate you
I love you
You hurt me
I failed
I get up
I’m angry
You broke me
I’m here

I didn’t leave
I didn’t lose
I cracked just by accident
Can anyone see
That I’m fragile
More broken than whole

The picture
Is perfect
I’m standing up tall
I walk talk and laugh
The layers all mesh
My brain works
My heart works
Pretend you don’t see the mess

Uhh

So before I was doing everything around the house, and couldn't keep up. Now I do it all one-handed. For 6 to 8 weeks.

Can I Have a Pony?

So instead of buying a Ferrari, I buy farm animals. Nice midlife crisis I'm having.

The Breakdown World Tour

My mom scheduled her psychotic break for this weekend. Not her usual psychotic breaks, you know the casual ones. This is a real one. I noticed it on Saturday, I woke up with a few sick kids, and realized I was getting sick too. Heavy chest. Runny nose. Still, we decided to hang out over at Moose's house. I could sew some Halloween costumes (I scored at the thrift store, a king outfit and a princess outfit, and a bunny outfit) I just needed to add a few homemade touches to make it feel more substantial.

I noticed my mom would not stop talking. Not in her normal way. She seemed, um, nuts. I felt that annoying mom feeling coming on and just let it fill me up like usual. But by the end of the day, I noticed she was not sleeping. She was slurring her speech a little bit. Did she have a stroke? She was taking these hardcore antibiotics to fight a bad chest cold, maybe pneumonia. A father at our school had died of pneumonia/swine flu a few weeks ago. So the antibiotics were good.

But they were not good. She was completely confused. Speaking but not stringing her sentences together, stumbling for words. Like my gramma after her stroke. I kept calling the doctor. Finally got to him Sunday night. Speakerphone. He tells me he thinks my mom need a psych evaluation.

My mom has needed a psych evaluation for decades. But no, this is a real, scary, possibly manic depressive psychotic break. The doctor says calmly. In his thin, gentle way. Like she's twisted a pinky finger. Except much worse.

So we get her some medicine so she can sleep, but we don't tell her it's antipsychotic. The word itself freaks me out. You don't want your mom and psychotic to be in the same sentence. I feed her the little pill every half hour like he says. I put the baby to bed and go over to her room and she's half on the bed, legs hanging off, asleep. I put her in bed. She wakes up and I make her eat some chicken and drink some lemonade. She talks with her eyes closed, or open but she's not really seeing me. If she saw me, she'd see I was crying. She talks about alcoholism. About her mother. About the kids. About how much she loves me.

I don't understand why we get involved with people, with love, like this. Why do people have to care about other people? It's a trap, you're stuck, you love people, it hurts. To see your mom lost, fragile, vulnerable, it's awful. There's no words.

I see why I'm home with the kids. A mother matters more than anyone in the whole world. I'm old, and my mother matters to me. Her being well, and functioning, and being back the way she was, ordering stuff off of QVC and being annoying, I want it all back.

I am lucky enough, depressingly enough, to have been there for all of her breakdowns. We're on the world tour. It's been a long time between stops. This poor woman - and yet I see all the things I love about her. Things only I would care about. The shape of her face. Her fingers in my hair, scratching my head. Her crazy laugh. The way she has kept going in spite of feeling crippling loss inside. She is my mother. These are things that can't be replaced by anyone else.

We're going to the doctor in the morning. I whispered to him on the phone, "Do people come back from this?" afraid of his answer. "They do," he said.

She's laying over there, frail as broken crackers. Her brain all in tatters. I hope there's a chance.

Got Goats?

Yes, I'm crazy. No, I did not videotape the goats coming to our house. Because on the last boat ride we took (the first and last for now), I stood up and dropped the video camera into a few drops of water enjoying the bottom of the boat. That baptism which the camera decided was a good enough reason to give up on living.

A lady, a nice lady, who looked more like a girl, but 40 means lady, she came and brought us the goats. She's renting out a stall in the barn. We stood in the driveway while the big truck backed up and then the big white door - we could see shapes through the crack in the door, but the suspense was tremendous. Then after an eternity the door was whooshed open, and there was the smallest herd of goats and sheep, standing silently inside. Looking cornfused. The kids breathed in a collective oohhhh.

The goats figured out to walk out, and as we stood aside a lady named Wendy who looked more like let's call her haggard, not a friend to sunscreen or its benefits, anyway, she was a goat expert, and sort of waved them the right direction, which worked for them. They managed to trot up the driveway and into the kingdom of the barn, which they have now dominated with large amounts of tiny poops. Spread around so you can't gather them very well. By the way.

We hang on the fence and watch the goats. The sheep hang in a set of three - white, brown and black. (I identify with the black sheep.) (heh heh). They look more intelligent than their country goat brothers and sisters who look like hicks. Something about the skinny goat faces, tiny teeth and beards. They look like they spend alot of time laid off work in bars in Alabama low country. The sheep look like concert pianists.

Goats and sheep don't do a helluva lot. Chickens are working for you. They squeeze you out something you can eat, once a day. The goats and sheep - they're furry. They have the weird slanted eyeball pupils that is a little like satan. You can see why the devil likes goats.

Anyway, it's nice to have something living in the barn. The bunnies are fun but they don't say baaa. They're so busy with their typing. (Bunnies look like stenographers.)

Hank the big sheepherding dog thinks God has answered his call. His own herd of sheep. He just sits there loveglazed, looking at them with the adoration of a betrothed on his wedding day. Hank is a lumberjack.

Owen, our scared dog, is a priest. Maisie, our old dog, is a former showgirl.

The Ice Cream Man Scares Me

The ice cream man started coming by the house everyday. It was cute at first but after awhile, give it a rest man. We don't have that much money for ice cream, already.

I made the mistake of befriending the guy. Chris. His ice cream truck looks like typical ice cream trucks. A slightly beaten up white van with peeling ice cream stickers on the side. It looks seedy, like maybe he sleeps on the floor next to the Blow Pops.

Chris is from Armenia which I think is an actual country, not just in Glendale. My mom thinks he's Italian, which is more romantic, so I haven't broken it to her. The first time we chatted it was exciting, the kids had their dollars clutched in their hands, every ice cream looked so good, no one could decide anything. Chris told me he was thinking of getting an incubator, to raise baby chickens. We spent about 3000 dollars on ice cream and the visit ended.

The next time we saw him (the very next day), I struggled out there with three wet kids from the pool. (The kids go into a frenzy when they hear the truck's warbled music. 'I peen puck' Lilly says.) As the kids pick their ice creams, and I say hi to Chris, he reaches out to shake my hand. I shake it gratefully, and then pull my hand back at the appropriate time. He does not let go of my hand. There is the moment of ick. He is holding my hand because he wants to hold my hand because he wants - what does he want? How bout Awkward? I wonder how much awkward costs, and here I am getting it for free. I finally get my hand back, but now I can no longer look Chris in the eye. Why did he do that? Why couldn't we be friends with a regular handshake? Did he have to ruin ice cream??

The last time I saw Chris (I believe it was the next day after that), he wanted me to make a phone call for him. Something about wanting a dozen eggs delivered to a liquor store at 7 pm. I had been watching too much true crime on tv - was he negotiating a drug deal? Why did I have to call for him? Couldn't he call on his ice cream phone? Of course I said I would call, although I went inside with knit brows, and made the half-hearted call to some guy named Kevin who had no idea what I was talking about: "um, my ice cream man wants some eggs or something?"

I don't go out when the ice cream man comes anymore. Since the weird egg phone call and the handshake, I send someone else out with the kids - husband, visiting mom friend, aunt. Anyone but me. The ice cream truck music sounds like a horror movie in general, but now it really gets me.

Summer is almost over. I promise to venture forth and visit Chris in one last brave act before the last day winds down. I will wave from a respectful distance. If he tries to get me to engage in some kind of strange other conversation, I will wave and pretend I've undergone a lobotomy. It's not that I don't want to be friends, or to help people get their eggs or drugs, for god's sake. I didn't want to cross over the line with the guy in the white van with the music. I just wanted to float.

The root beer float. I just wanted the ice cream.

Following the Leader

I can't stop watching the Dog Whisperer. I think I'm in love with Cesar Millan. He has such dark brown eyes. Big, soft dog eyes. I want to go to his dog camp and live in the herd. He'd mix my food with his own hands. I would learn to work in a pack. I would submit.
Seriously, the guy is a genius. He just whips into these people's lives and points out that they have the problem, not the dog. They have to be leaders. The dog is content to follow a strong leader.
I think I have always confused leading with Knowing Everything. Even the writing I'm doing on Ehow, it contributes to this I Know Everything problem. I KNOW I will get in trouble for stealing stuff from the thrift store, and yet I do it. Sometimes.
I think I need a leader, and all these years, I keep looking for that outside leader. I think Cesar is saying TO ME - YOU ARE THE LEADER. But Cesar, can't I come live in your dog camp? Even though you're from Mexico can I still follow you? Wait, he's saying. YOU can do it. YOU are the leader. Not the one who knows everything. But the one who can lead.
I've been really good at being haphazard my whole life. I've perfected it. But I think this is a whole new level I can reach. Staying haphazard (which means never filing anything on my desk) and at the same time, finding diamond-like clarity within my heart. Tight, pure, beautiful silence. Acceptance. Love.
Like the stretched out Hank by the front door, on the cool tile, sleeping. Expecting nothing, happy for everything. Happy just to see your face.
Being the leader doesn't mean you know what you're doing. It just means you are at peace with your own power, and that your weaknesses are what make you shiny, and loveable.

Bad Dog Update

My mom's dog and our dog have been kept separated. Turns out they only bust out of the house and go crazy when they're together. So far Hank is acting like he's never even thought of eating small rabbit-like dogs. He even puts himself into the kitchen when we head for the front door, like he knows it's time to go behind the babygate. He must've heard me calling all the rescue people and saying they could come take him.

He's on probation. We'll see.

Hank Eats Neighbor's Dog

When is it time to give up a bad dog?

I'm not sure it's the dog that's bad, although running out the door and over to a tiny dog and grabbing it by the neck is pretty bad. But the circumstances of the household are bad. Doors get left open by kids (especially babies) who have just learned how to use doors, dogs run out - unless the dog is tied to me, I can't watch him 24 hours a day. And aren't the kids more important?

The hell that insued because I took twenty minutes to sit out back with the chickens and talk to Chris long distance on the telephone while the kids watched Sponge Bob. The front door got opened, the dogs ran out. The dogs when they are together, decide sometimes to pick on other small animals. It's freaky. Then I had to deal with Barry yelling at the kid who left the door open, the 8 year old who stands dejected on one foot, then the neighbor who looks like a walking, two hundred pound, once-hearty tumor that has sagged and gathered all around her waistline. I had to take her and her tiny dog who was completely fine to the vet, and listen to her rail at me about my terrible kids, my terrible parenting and my terrible dog, and I took it all because I knew she was scared. I tried to let it just wash past me, even though it hurt, because I know it's awful to have your dog attacked. But I couldn't help feeling angry that the insults she hurled weren't more intelligent, instead everything was base because she is an uneducated racist, anti-gay, child-hating white woman. But I felt terrible about the trauma, and her dog. She was right about that.

The vet pronounced the dog in excellent health, and gave me a bill for a hundred dollars, which I paid quietly. I held the door open for the lady. I helped her into the van. I apologized and agreed with everything she said. I petted the dog.

At her house, she told me she was sorry for all the mean things she said. I told her it was okay. I got home and locked the dogs out back. The dogs may never get out of the house again. I wrote emails to people about adopting out my big dog Hank.

The next day, the whole day I had a crippling headache.

A woman I talked to last year said she could foster Hank until we found him a home. Nathan wants to keep Hank. Keeping Hank would mean every time the door is opened, I have to panic. Every time the door is opened for the next four to six years. It means gates up all the time. I have three kids. Climbing in and out, over and around gates.

I hate what he did, but I still love Hank. That's the sad part. I'm sure we'll figure it out, and do what's right. We're still thinking about it.

I feel like I'm not enjoying my life enough. I noticed this after my second hour in the PTA closet with Kathy.

I know, it sounds more interesting than it was. It was actually just a closet with a bunch of junk in it, and me ignoring the baby who was wandering the auditorium, folding all the wooden seats up.

I can't seem to have fun unless I'm over-responsible. Lots of chickens, lots of dogs, lots of kids, lots of work, lots of laundry, lots of yard work. Then I wonder why I don't know how to relax. I think if I relaxed, I might just fall over. No wonder I can't stop watching TLC. All the shows appeal to my zoned out, underused laugh section. The Lady with Giant Legs. That was an actual show. People with Obsessive disorders. Midget couples. Am I actually creating this channel out of my innermost brain desires? Families with 18 children. Fat people. Alcoholics. What's with the religion? Religion is everywhere, and people who are religious dress really badly.


I think the raising of these kids and the worry and the pressure and the love and the cooking just makes me into a giant wad of wad by 11 at night. I sit there sucking in the shows about real people who kill each other. I know why they kill each other. It's the cooking.

Anyway. You wonder why I haven't been writing. I did spend time with Nathan today buying carnival stuff at Smart and Final. And the baby is waiting for me to come snuggle with her, way late at night, even though she's asleep. And Emma in her blue gymnastics outfit, crying because her back hurt, and she's got a new tooth coming in. These kids just keep going. I better get to bed. They're already ahead of me.