(Passive) Aggressive Pitbull Behavior

You'd never know it from this photo, but this is one passive-aggressive dog.

Beauty woke Wayne and I up at 4:25 this morning to go out.

She snuck into our room from the girls' at about 2 a.m. -- I heard her because I was awake (Not shocking). She jumped up, nudged her way under the covers, curled up in a ball and didn't move for hours. She was warm and comforting to snuggle with while I lay there suffering from insomnia.

At 4:25 she got up, stretched, yawned, and sat next to my head and looked at me. I, of course, was awake.

I did not move. I did not want to give away the fact that I was awake.

She did her "ear flap" thing -- she shakes her head really fast so that her ears make a loud flapping sound against her head. It's insanely loud and will wake the dead. It's her way of informing others that she's ready to make a location change; she does it whenever she moves from one room to another. She yawned, stretched again, and made her way to Wayne's side and stared at him.

He did not move either, because he actually WAS asleep.

She did this a few more times, each time getting more disruptive in her moves. Instead of stretching between our bodies, she would stretch OVER our bodies, so that you could not ignore that there was a 40-pound dog leaning on you. Finally, I was awake enough to do something about this.

At 4:30 I let her out to piddle. She did.

We went back in. I went back to bed.

She went back to staring at us, yawning and ear-flapping. We put her outside of the room and shut our door tightly. We heard her pacing the hall and coming back to our room, nudging our door with her nose to see if it would open. It wouldn't. But it was annoying to hear.

Finally Wayne got up and took her for a walk about 5 a.m. He got back at 5:30, now awake for the day.

Beauty came back to our bed and slept with me until 7 a.m. while Wayne made coffee, read the paper, and then swept and mopped the entire downstairs. He was grumpy and annoyed the rest of the day.

Beauty doesn't know that it's Memorial Day and that even though she NORMALLY goes out at 4:30 a.m. and goes for a walk or run, it's a holiday and we get to NOT get up at some insane hour.

Our next dog trick?

Teach her to tell time. And read a calendar.

Is it 7 a.m. yet?!

Miniature Woman

Lindsey at her murder-mystery themed birthday party.

Lindsey just turned 13. This is an amazing time of her life, and it is incredible to watch.

Her wit was brought to light when my family played cards when my mom and stepdad visited. She was funny. Witty. Intelligent. And won every game.

She is kind to her friends. She gives advice when it is asked, none when it is not, and a joke when the tension is high.

She speaks to adults with confidence and politeness, and has appropriate conversations and not awkward silence.

It is hard to believe that this independent, confident girl is my child, and not someone else's. Wasn't it just yesterday she was a little tiny baby, brought home from the hospital, with a mother who wondered how the nurses could entrust such a little life into her care?

Yet here she is, despite my foibles, a young lady growing, becoming her own.

I am so amazed and grateful.

Lindsey was "The Goose" in the middle school play. "Squacks" were never so funny!

Why We're Remodeling

It's time.

We've been living in our house for nearly 14 years. It's time that it finally fit our family's needs.

The location is amazing, the neighborhood unbeatable. And we love the charm of our older home.

What we don't love is that there is no bathroom on our first floor. There's only one actual bathroom in the whole house. (There is a toilet and sink in our laundry room downstairs, but they don't count as a bathroom, according to the appraiser.)

Did I mention that in less than a month our first-born will be a teenager? She is already up to 45-minute shower/private time in the bathroom, God help us if she begins wearing make up.

We don't love the cramped kitchen, where the main traffic pattern through the house goes straight past the stove.

Oh, the stove. Did I mention that there is no countertop space next to it? If I need to take a lid off a pot to stir some spaghetti sauce I take the chance of whacking a family member in the face with it as I search for a flat surface to place it. You can often hear "hot pan coming through!" during dinner prep. And I can't open the oven door if someone has the fridge door open -- they collide.

It's time.

For years Wayne and I have sat on our patio in the summer, looking at the back of the house and dreaming. What if we expanded the kitchen? What if we expanded the bathroom upstairs? What if...what if?

And now, we find those "what ifs" becoming reality. We are in disbelief that we are actually doing this, even as I look out at a new crawl space and framing wood stacked neatly in our backyard, about to become our addition.

"Where am I supposed to poop?" thinks Beauty.

Best of all, we are incorporating parts of our history into our home. One wall of our kitchen will be adorned with wood from Wayne's grandfather's barn, the original homestead of the Horsman family. We hope to fill the walls in the dining room with photos of the Upper Peninsula, where I spent many a summer as a child.

We cannot wait until it's all complete. But, we get to live through the middle part. Marissa will have to bunk with Lindsey for about two months. We will be without a kitchen for about that amount of time. Hopefully it'll be grilling weather most of that time.

Somehow I think we'll survive as a family; we've got our eye on the prize.

Not the Real Mexico

The view from our balcony.

When our family took our trip to Mexico, we all were more than a bit nervous about traveling to another country. It's been years since Wayne and I had been to Mexico, and we all wondered about the language barrier.

As I expected, everyone working in the resort spoke English. We got to practice saying "gracias" and "por favor" a lot, but otherwise all transactions occurred in English. We didn't even have to change our money, we paid for any cash transactions with US dollars and tipped in dollars.  Can you imagine someone from Mexico coming to our country and trying to use pesos?

Early on in our stay Lindsey asked if Mexicans who vacation in the US can stay in places that only speak Spanish. I said, "If they vacation in an area that has a lot of Spanish-speaking people possibly, but for the most part they need to know English."

"But that's not fair!" she said., You are correct, it is not.

One day when went shopping in Playa del Carmen and had a taxi take us to "5th Avenue" (which is actually on 5th Ave), with blocks and blocks of vendors with tables out, stores and restaurants. The drive to leave our resort was a boulevard lined with lights, sculptures and palm trees. The driver then took a left and we were on a city street lined with half-tumbled down buildings and ramshackle lean-tos. A clothesline hung under a bridge held tiny t-shirts for boys and dresses for little girls. The heat was oppressive and there was no escaping it -- no pool to dip your toes into, no one to offer you a cool drink.

I felt like we had been living in Capitol City in the Hunger Games while District 13 was right outside our door.

Our luxurious bathroom.

Our family talked about it for some time after our shopping excursion. I would like to think that our visiting the country, going to a resort that employs local people and tipping generously throughout our trip helps. Yet the poverty we saw in a few blocks was no different from the poverty I saw in Honduras 15 years ago. Of the thousands of dollars we spent on our vacation -- airfare, the resort, food and shopping -- the majority of that money went to Melia, the company that owns the Paradisus line of resorts, and the airline. How much of that trickled down to the employees themselves? I can't imagine very much.

Our girls got a glimpse of how extravagantly Americans live compared to people in other countries. We talked a bit about the girl our family sponsors in the Philippines and how we can't help everyone living in poverty, but we can help one girl. And that has to count for something.

Mexico

The view when you enter the resort lobby of Paradisus La Esmeralda.

I never in my wildest dreams imagined we could ever do a family vacation to Mexico. We never took exotic vacations like that when I was a kid, and when Wayne was a kid -- well, they didn't take vacations.

The four of us had an absolutely fantastic time. The weather was balmy and sunny every day. The resort was absolutely incredible -- top-notch service everywhere we went, amazing restaurants, and delicious food. Our room was breath-taking and perfect for our family, with a swim-out into the pool right from our deck, perfect for our little fishy Marissa who always wanted to go to the pool. She could swim straight from our room while we sat on the deck, reading a book and having a cold one.

Marissa on the steps of our swim-out balcony. 

 But the best part of the vacation wasn't where we were (though that certainly helped), it was who we were with and what we did.

On one of our first nights there Marissa tried to cut a steak and managed to keep one little piece and lose the entire rest of the steak under the table. Lindsey laughed so hard that the rest of us were in giggles the rest of the night.

One morning Lindsey sneezed and the cough drop that used to be in her mouth skittered across the marble floor in the lobby of our hotel, to be heard stopping against a potted plant. Again, I don't know why all these things were so funny to us, but they were.

We all tried snorkeling for the first time. Lindsey and Wayne went parasailing. We lounged around the beach, the room, the pool, the lobby. We read, journaled, listened to music, giggled at Spongebob Squarepants in Spanish, and napped most every afternoon.

Reading.

Writing a letter to Grandma Horsman.

We are already planning next year's vacation. The Paradisus was an incredible resort and we would go there again, but we're thinking about visiting the one in Costa Rica. Or Belize. After all, we've only got 5 more years until the oldest one graduates high school.

Gulp.

Enjoying one last view of the mangroves before heading home.

Who Do You Trust?

I've been carefully watching the case between the U.S. government and Apple and the San Bernadino iPhone.

In case you haven't kept up: The FBI has asked Apple to create a software "back door" into the iPhone used by one of the bombers involved in the San Bernadino terrorist attack. The FBI states that there is no other way to unlock the data within that phone besides having Apple compromise the security of every iPhone that's been produced.

Don't believe me? That's what it comes down to. Create a master key and it unlocks every door. Even though the FBI assures Apple (and thus assures us) that this master key will only be used to unlock this one phone, it all comes down to this:

Who do you, a member of the public, trust more, the U.S. government, or Apple?

The answer to that question is obvious to me: I trust Apple. They have a vested interest in the security of all the phones they've produced, phones that millions of us rely on for our only phone line, our email access, our connection to the world.

I've polled a few people with that very question; which do you trust more? The answer in every case has been Apple.

What a sad statement on the state of our governing body that we would trust a for-profit corporation before we trust our own government. Between the economic downturn, the big bank bailout, the current election shenanigans and the ever growing gap between the have's and the have not's, it's no wonder we'd trust Apple over our government.

Yet another sign that government by the people, for the people, is not working.

Popular

The other day Lindsey was telling me about the "popular" kids at school. Lindsey and her friends don't describe themselves as popular, and she clearly has that "I wish I were them" and "I hate them" kind of thinking that kids this age have about the in-crowd.

It seems that everyone grew up in a school where there was a "popular" group; doesn't matter your generation, class size, big town (or small) or what state you grew up in.  I just don't get it.  I decided to ask her some questions to see what's changed over the years, and perhaps impart some wisdom.

Q: So what does it take to be popular?

A: To be popular you have to be nice, wear really, really nice clothes, have neat handwriting, and have a smartphone.

Q: How do you know who the popular kids are?

A: You can just tell. They dress really nice and care about how they look. Boys too. And they're nice one-on-one, but if you come up to them as a group they're really mean.

Q: Really? Have you seem them do that?

A: Well one time my friend came up to a popular girl and asked her a question and she just turned away from her and wouldn't talk to her, even though they hang out together because they live on the same block.

Q: Maybe she didn't hear your friend.

A: I doubt that.

Q: Do the popular kids hang out with unpopular kids at school?

A: No. They all sit at the same lunch table and joke and laugh with each other.

Q: So what would happen if you came up to them, sat down at the table and joined in?

A: Are you kidding, Mom? They would look at you like "What are you doing here?" and would probably be quiet until you went away.

Q: What do you and your friends do at lunch?

A: We have a blast. We have such an awesome table, we spend the entire time trying to make each other crack up. We have so much fun.

Q: Wow, that sounds like something other kids would want to be a part of. What would happen if someone you didn't know sat down at your table and asked to join in?

A: We'd probably look at them like "What are you doing here?" and....oooohhhh!

We talked for a bit longer and then I gave her the same message I've been giving my kids for years: Be Yourself! Be your own authentic self and you will attract the kind of people you want to have in your life. It won't matter if you're popular or geeky or musical or anything else, because you'll be happy.

And then I told her not to smoke or do drugs ever or have sex before 18. I got the eyeroll AND the big sigh.

Bonus parenting points.

Sleepless No More

I am sitting in a darkened house with a cup of coffee, looking out at a winter wonderland, piano music softly playing from our living room speaker. I am finally doing one of my favorite activities that has been absent for too long: writing.

These quiet moments are rare.  For years I have suffered from insomnia, which means that on weekends I "sleep in" until 8 or 9 sometimes, catching up on the sleep I missed earlier in the week.  Weekends I finally get a full 8 hours of sleep, even though it takes me 12 hours to do so. Usually by the time I'm up the girls are up and the day's activities have begun.

Today, they are still in bed and it is quiet. I began writing at 6:30 a.m.

I had been in a slump this summer and part of this fall, though others couldn't tell. My Fitbit that I got for my birthday in the spring informed me of how very little sleep I was getting, yet at the same time how much. I would awake in the morning thinking I'd barely slept 3 hours, only to find that I had slept more than that but hadn't thought so.

But really, what's the point of knowing you got seven hours of sleep when you feel like you got three? Knowing that I'd gotten more sleep than I thought would energize me for a time, until physical fatigue set in. I'd convince myself that I really should be able to function; after all, I got seven whole hours of sleep! But I still felt exhausted because the sleep was so disjointed. I would wake up around 2:00 most every night. Some times I fell right back asleep, but most nights I would lie awake until at least 4:00 if not 5:00. Occasionally I was up for the day.

Morning meetings are a bitch when you've already been up for 8 hours by the time they occur, much less afternoon meetings. People at work thought I was a morning person, but that was only because morning was actually my afternoon considering the time I got up for the day.

My wise husband, who has talked to me over the years about my sleeplessness, finally convinced me to do something different about it than what I'd been doing before, which was, really, nothing. I had read every resource about getting good sleep, followed every recommendation. I went to bed at about the same time, have a bedtime routine, used lavender,  tried melatonin, insert well-intentioned person's advice here. I had tried over-the-counter sleeping pills but they made me groggy upon waking. Despite all attempts, like clockwork my eyes would pop open at 2 a.m.

My doctor informed me that if I hadn't been waking up in the middle of the night previously that I would start to do so, as women in "my stage of life" often have hormones fluctuate mid-sleep cycle and for some it causes insomnia.

What kind of walking zombie was I going to become?

I finally tried something I had never done before, something that was always a last ditch effort for me: a prescription sleeping pill.

What a novel concept, right?

Sleep aids are one of the most commonly prescribed medications, and I only finally decided to consider them.

My mother has always been hesitant to take prescription medications. Her life's experience led her to have no trust in pharmaceutical companies, and her skepticism is not unfounded. Just like any parent/child relationship, her values have rubbed off on me.

My mother expressed concern that sleep aids cause long-term memory loss and confusion. But guess what else does: lack of sleep. And here I was, wasting hours of my life attempting to sleep while not having the energy to get my exercise in, being cranky with my family, masking my fatigue at work, and never trying a sleeping pill.

After discussing options with my doctor and expressing my hesitation at taking Ambien, which was his recommendation, he finally convinced me to try it with one caution: Never, EVER take it if I've had any alcohol at all. Yes, sir. (And then he and I compared our favorite wines.)

The first night I took one I let my husband know to be on the look out for any weird behavior, and that if the kids needed something in the middle of the night he was on-call. I dutifully took a sleeping pill and went to sleep.

I woke up with my alarm at 6:30.  I was refreshed, not groggy. I cannot describe to you the feeling of having a full night's sleep for the first time in what felt like eons. All day I walked around with a giddy smile on my face. I couldn't believe how good I felt!

It's been a few months now since that first experience, and I am a changed woman. I sleep through the night. If I awake in the middle of the night I fall back asleep usually within 30 minutes.

I started doing my fitness routine again, first just on weekends (when I used to get my catch-up sleep), and then rising earlier during the week as well. I'm back up to exercising three times a week, and I feel AMAZING. Exercise gives me strength and energy, and I'm thrilled to be getting the rest needed to be back at it.

I feel like my life is back on track. It's incredible what sleep can do for a body.

Still Here

Christmas Ever 2015

It's been a while.

Life is busy. Life is good.

Life is blessed.

I'm still here, have so much to say and so little time to say it. I am re-prioritizing exercising over blogging, which means I'm not up late at night to write. I miss it, but I miss sleep more, and am happy to be back to my fitness activities. I have several ideas burbling in my head and will get them down eventually.

Thank you for following along.

Cardio kickboxing, anyone?

Halloween Festivities

We hosted a Halloween party at our house this year, with each girl inviting up to 7 of her friends.

There are a few missing guests, but this was most of the party-goers.

The girls didn't have school on Friday, the day of the party, since it was the quarter break, so Lindsey's friend Ava came over and helped decorate. They put together a pretty amazing haunted house in Lindsey's bedroom.

Had to turn the light on to take the pic, but it was cool when it was pitch black.

The party was a blast, and the haunted house a huge hit. Marissa and her friends would gingerly step into the room, then one of them would scream and the others would join in and they would all run out. Then they would laugh and say, "Let's do it again!"

They played ghosts in the graveyard, despite the light rain, and nibbled on snacks.

The next night was Halloween. Lindsey planned a group costume with her best buds. They call themselves the Four Musketeers, so they decided to dress the part.

The four of them trick-or-treated a route that went between all their homes, ending at her friend Ellie's house, with stops for hot chocolate and cupcakes on the way. I didn't see them all night until Lindsey got home after her festivities.

Marissa dressed up as a police woman and I took her trick-or-treating with her friend Erika, the vampire. Erika's mom and I visited along the way while the girls hit house after house.

It was a beautiful evening with a bit of a chill in the air. The two girls took in quite a loot. The trading continued into the next morning.

Marissa's candy is in the shape of an "M."

They have to decide which ones to keep and which ones to turn in for money. They get $4 for each pound of candy they turn in, a pretty good deal for a kid.

Wanna go for a run?

My family had a dog when I was a child. I was 5 when we got him and 19 when he died.  He was pretty much my childhood dog.

He was a golden retriever named Captain and was the nicest, sweetest tempered dog. My dad wanted a golden because he wanted a hunting dog, and Captain happily obliged. They went grouse and pheasant hunting, sometimes catching the occasional rabbit.

The night before a hunting trip my dad would pull his hunting gear out of the closet, the blaze orange hat, heavy overalls, the gun in the gun case. Captain would circle him and leap for joy in his excitement. When Dad would get up at some ungodly hour Captain would already be up waiting for him -- my dad joked that Captain didn't sleep all night he was so excited to go.

My dad and Captain out in the field

This memory came to me today as Wayne was preparing to go for a run. He disappeared downstairs to stretch for 30 minutes as he always does before running. Within minutes Beauty had trotted downstairs to join him. She licked his face when he got down to her level to stretch, she circled him and leaned against him, knocking him off balance as he did one-legged squats. I finally took her upstairs so he could finish stretching in peace.

Eventually Wayne re-appeared in running gear and with her harness.

"Hey girl, wanna go for a run?" he said, and Beauty leaped for joy.

He leashed her up and off they went for 50 minutes and 7 miles. Yes, 7 miles in less than an hour, meaning they were running an average of a 7:10 pace. One of the miles they clocked a 6:30 pace, and that was when Wayne said she finally began "running" and not "trotting."

"That girl is too fast for her own good," he said when they returned, both of them hot despite the 45 degree temperature, and a little breathless.

I think Wayne has finally found someone in the family as fast as he is, and Beauty has discovered that she's a runner.

Beauty circles the chair while Wayne gets his shoes on. He's not leaving the house without her.

Getting her harness on.

Ready to run!

A Fart Story

My dad loves fart stories. He has his whole life -- he has never outgrown the idea that fart are absolutely hilarious. This trait may have been passed on to his daughters.

The other day, when dad was having a particularly bad day from the side effects of chemo, I told him the following story:

Last weekend we had our first fire in the fire place for the season. We don't know if Beauty's ever been around a fire, and she seemed quite anxious. We were accustomed to our sweet dog Dax, whose dog bed was perennially placed right in front of the fireplace, where he could be warm and cozy when a fire was roaring.

Beauty, on the other hand, was quite concerned about the fire. She did not want to go near it, even into her cozy dog bed. We pulled her bed several feet into the room, then throughout the course of the evening pulled it closer and closer to the fire, until she was finally right in front of the fire grate.

She snuggled down and seemed content.

But then we learned she was not.

I was sitting in a chair right next to the fireplace, and let out quite an audible fart.

At the sound, Beauty leapt up like something bit her, her tail down, ears back. She glanced back at the fire, then scurried up the stairs.  She spent the rest of the evening sleeping on Lindsey's bed.

Clearly she believed my gas was from that ominous fire. We all laughed uproariously. Tears rolled down our cheeks and we clutched our guts in laughter.

I told this story to my dad, and he responded in kind: He dropped the phone in laughter. It was perfect. Clearly the best remedy for a day when he wasn't feeling his greatest.

I think I'll hold on to all my fart stories until the days he's not feeling well.

PsychoKiller Dog

We have a killer on our hands. A psychokiller, to be exact.



A decimator of fluff. Of squeakers. Of yarn and string and rubber.

A toy killer, to be precise.

She looks the part, doesn't she?

This dog goes through toys like water.

Wayne and I had both had forgotten what it was like to have a young dog, a playful, energetic dog who leaps, bounds and runs to her heart's content.

If we don't have squeaky toys and chew toys at hand, we must prepare to have other items chewed to satisfy her need.

Stuffed toys last approximately 2.5 days -- or an hour, depending on the quality. Wayne decided to buy an expensive "indestructible" toy, which lasted all of one evening. Fifteen dollars down the drain. Or rather, strewn across the living room carpet.

Several of the girls' stuffed animals have seen their last days, thanks to Beauty's sharp teeth.



The other evening I came home from work to find that it had snowed in our living room. A fluffy, sparse snow that covered our carpet in eclectic little pieces.

Merry Christmas! Kind of.

I believe that was the $15 toy. Or maybe the $7 one. I'm not quite sure which amount of money was destroyed that day.

If we don't buy toys, we need to know that other items in our house will see their end. Like her more expensive dog bed. Or a beloved stuffed animals meant for little girls.  Or the couch.

If anything, it's finally teaching the girls to pick up after themselves, unless they don't want to see their prized possessions in one piece again.

Un-stuffing the turkey. It didn't make it to Thanksgiving.

She's a killer all right.

Chitown

Happy 20th anniversary to us!

Our 20th anniversary date passed with a quiet dinner at home with the family. Our table was adorned with a beautiful fall bouquet of flowers and an exchange of cards. We were treated to special cards from our girls and an awesome Powerpoint that our oldest put together on the fly, celebrating our big anniversary. It was very sweet and very quiet.

We had bigger things up our sleeves.

The following weekend we flew to Chicago in time for dinner reservations at Benny's Chop House, one of Chicago's fantastic steakhouses, walking distance from our hotel. We dressed up, I in a new autumn-orange dress, Wayne in a shirt and sports coat. Yes, he finally recently purchased his first sports coat since burgundy fabric was in style.

Our dinner was absolutely divine. We had a nice little table to ourselves; it felt like we were the only people in the place. I had a scallop with my steak which was one of the best I've ever had. We shared a side of brussel sprouts and baked potato and sipped at a bottle of cabernet.

We ended the evening with a nightcap in the bar while a songstress played the piano and crooned tunes familiar to us both.

It was so relaxing, so wonderful to go back to a hotel room that we had all to ourselves.

An absolutely stunning autumn day in Chicago.

The next day we walked down to Millennium Park to check out the Bean -- I mean, Cloud Gate -- and some other art. There was also a little set up going on for a little event that was taking place Sunday morning.

Does that sign say "Start?"

We had a nice dinner at the restaurant at our hotel called Joe Fish which, ironically, was an Italian restaurant. We had their famous meatballs and some wine, then went to bed early.

Ah yes, that little event they were setting up for...the Chicago marathon.

Seriously, what couple do you know celebrate their anniversary by going to another city for one to run and the other to cheer a marathon? Just us.

Wayne left before the sun was up to get to his starting corral. There were 45,000 runners in this marathon and Wayne was concerned that he was going to be stuck in a pack of runners. Luckily, he got an ideal assignment of Corral A, just behind the elite runners, thanks to a previous marathon finish of 3:09. He had no problems breaking out of the crowd to run his own pace.

I, on the other hand, had problems seeing him. I had underestimated how big the race was. Unlike the Twin Cities marathon, where you could always count on a little break in the runners to jaunt across the course, there was no space to cross the course. The only way to get around it to see a runner at a different mile marker was to use subway tunnels or literally run along with the runners until you crossed the street, both of which I did.

Runners filled the street from curb to curb.

I kept missing him at every mile marker. Finally I was at mile 12 well before he should have gone by. I watched the fastest runners go by, then some more, and more. I cheered, all the time scanning the crowd for him or for his familiar pace.

Suddenly my phone buzzed -- I got a text message that he had just crossed the half marathon mark, a mile down the way from me. He must've run past and I didn't see him in the crowd.

After that I gave up trying to see him and instead went to a Dunkin Donuts for some breakfast and hot coffee. I wandered back down to Millennium Park where the finish was and waited in the sunshine for the text message that would tell me he crossed the finish line. (Isn't technology wonderful?)

The walking wounded after the fnish line, some with beers in hands.

Wayne finished with a time of 3:38:01, another Boston qualifying time, and under his goal of 3:40. We were able to meet up at the finish and walked back to the hotel together, giving his cramping legs the stretch needed to loosen up.

He cleaned up and we had a celebratory lunch of fish n'chips and beer, then off to the airport to catch our plane.

Short but sweet. A unique and fun way to celebrate 20 years together.

What Moms Really Mean When They Say "I Have to Poop"

Credit to collegehumor.com

When my husband and I were first dating and we spent time with my family, he was always a bit befuddled by my mom's need to announce her bodily functions.

"Well, I'm going to go sit a bit," she would state, and march off to the bathroom.

"That's more than I need to know," he would say to me, and we would go on doing whatever we were doing.

It didn't make much sense to me until we had kids.

It began with our first-born, who was crawling at the time and was attached to me every waking moment. The three of us were sitting around one Sunday morning, relaxing while she played happily on the floor. I suddenly knew I had to use the bathroom and yet, if I left the room, I would have a baby crawling after me,

"I'm going to use the bathroom," I told my husband. This was my subtle way of telling him that he was on parent duty and needed to entertain the baby, or at least keep her from following me. He looked at me like, "That's more than I need to know," but said, "Okay...."

I went upstairs and started doing my business and within 30 seconds there was a baby outside the bathroom, crying and pounding on the closed door.

"Wayne!" I yelled down the stairs through the closed door. "Get the baby!"

Apparently I needed to be more direct than subtle.

It has not improved over the years. When our dog Dax needed to be let out, he would whine and pace outside the closed bathroom door, while other family members walked around him, ignoring his pleas to be let outside.

I've had homework slid under the door to me to be checked. I've had children outside the door, telling me about their day. It. Can't. Wait. Another. Minute.

I've yelled instructions to people through the door because apparently they can't figure out what needs to be done without my assistance.

"Will someone please let the dog out?"
"Will someone get the telephone?"
"Marissa, are you getting your shoes on?"

I swear I have not had an uninterrupted bowel movement in my own home for 12 years now. It's not like I go frequently or for long periods of time. It's just that the minute I need to go, someone needs something that only mom can handle.

"Mom! Lindsey pushed me!"
"Mom! Marissa pulled my hair!"
"Mom! I can't find my [insert item name here]."
"Mom, can you help me get something down from the cupboard?"

That last one was the final straw. I washed up and went downstairs to help said child get something from a cupboard out of her reach, only to discover that my husband was IN THE KITCHEN right next to the cupboard where the desired item was.

You got me out of the bathroom for this?

Now, everyone in our house knows that when I say "I need to use the bathroom for a bit" it means "leave mom the fuck alone."

And I am also in the habit of announcing when I have to go, just like my mom, so that everyone knows that I am unavailable for the next 3 to 5 minutes.

I now understand how it is we turn into our mothers when we become moms ourselves.

A Smidge of Hypocrisy

Not Beauty, but could be.

We had only had Beauty a few days when we encountered our first case of breed discrimination.

Beauty had met a few dogs in the neighborhood and got along with them. We had also been told that she was GREAT with other dogs, so we decided to take her to the dogpark one night. We wanted to make sure she stayed socialized with other dogs, unlike our previous dog, Dax.

I've never gone to a dog park before so I didn't know what to expect. We unleashed her and she took off like a bolt to the other dogs, then stopped abruptly when she reached them. She sniffed, they sniffed, they circled each other, then went romping off. They played tug of war with toys, dug holes, and ran around together, sniffing leaves and dirt.

There were several dogs including a corgi, a huge rottweiler and a sundry of mixed breeds, all of whom were well-behaved and having fun.

Then a man entered the park with his golden retriever. The golden met the rottweiler at the door and before 2 seconds had passed there was a snarling dogfight. The owners separated them and let them meet again with the same result. The woman with the rottweiler left the park, apologizing for her dog's behavior, saying she had never seen her dog fight with another dog before.

The man let his golden go and this time a fight ensured between the golden and a large white mixed breed. Again, the white dog had been in the park with everyone else for 10 minutes or more already with no issues.

Finally the man dragged this golden by the collar over to a bench and sat down, holding his animal back from every dog that came near. Each dog that came within distance of the golden was growled at in a menacing, non-playful way.

Once seated, the man began taking assessment of all the other dogs in the park. At this time there were probably 5 or 6 other dogs with a similar number of humans wandering about. He takes a look at Beauty and asks loudly, "Who brought the pitbull?"

I was not within earshot and did not hear him ask this question, but Lindsey was close enough and heard the entire tirade.

"I HATE pitbulls! Whoever brought the pitbull should take it out of the park. I was attacked by a pitbull two weeks ago. A person shouldn't have to walk down the street with a baseball bat to defend himself from one of those dogs."

All this time, Beauty is happily running about with the other dogs, while he has to hold his golden back from attacking every four-legged creature in the place.

I heard one of the other dog owners say, "Dude, there are kids here. Knock it off." I don't know what was said, if he had sworn during his tirade or had continued his bad-mouthing of Beauty, but no one else in the park appreciated what he was saying. I could tell something was being said, but was too far away to hear and didn't really want to know.

We decided that Beauty had had enough exercise and it was starting to drizzle, so we leashed her up to leave. I looked around and saw that everyone else was leaving the park, too. Every single person.

Everyone but the guy with the golden.

I don't know if they all walked out with us as a show of solidarity, or if the rain was driving them away as well. I would like to think the former.  Rain or not, no one wanted to be left in the park with the attack dog.

I hadn't even thought of how others may view her when we decided to get her. Even with animals, some humans tend to judge based on appearance and not on behavior. Such a shame.

She's a Beauty

We got a dog.

We fostered through Secondhand Hounds, and were looking for a dog that met our criteria so s/he could become our forever pet. It was so hard to choose! There are so many dogs in need, so please consider fostering if you have room in your heart and life for a pet.

There was Bishop, a sweet older gentleman who was perfectly trained in every way...except he's 70 lbs. We looked at Rusty, but he had issues barking, which wasn't a behavior we wanted to work through with a beagle mix. There was a beautiful lab/mastiff mix who was kicked out of the house when his owners had a baby, not for any behavioral reason, they just thought he was too big to be around the baby. He was too big for us too, but we felt so badly for his situation -- he literally hadn't been let back into the house since the baby came home from the hospital. There was Wesson, such a cute face, but as a 50 lb. pit bull mix, I couldn't see how our girls would be able to walk him.

And then there was Beauty.

She was a returnee -- she had been a foster, was adopted and within a week returned by the family who said they realized they didn't have time for a dog. She is also a pit bull mix but only 35 lbs fully grown, house trained, crate trained, good with other dogs, loves people and loves to snuggle. She has issues with separation anxiety and needs work on heeling when walking, but we thought we could work with that if she was already crate trained.

What a beauty she is! Her eyes are absolutely captivating and show such intelligence. We picked her up on Saturday, September 12th, which we've decided will be her birthday.

When we met her at Secondhand Hounds office, she was exceedingly excited and jumping all over the place. I had suspected that when the last family said they didn't have time for a dog that perhaps they didn't have time for a high-energy dog, even though the organization wouldn't call her high-energy. And at only 1 years of age, she still has a lot of puppy energy in her.

We brought her home and let her explore. Then our family took her for a walk to the local vet office, because we'd forgotten to grab the food that they had given us. They had no idea what brand she'd been getting fed, so we had to start from scratch. It was slow at the vet's office that afternoon, so one of the vet techs visited with Beauty, looked at her teeth and weighed her -- 34 lbs. On the website it said she was 30 -- if she had been, she had been very underfed when she came in!

She got home and was still very excited, so Wayne took her for a 4-mile run.

She came home from the run and immediately fell asleep. You could tell that she wanted to stay awake because her eyes kept opening, kind of like a little kid who insists he's not sleepy as he's nodding off. I'm sure she was so excited to be in a new place.

After her run and her nap, she was perfectly behaved, a little less rambunctious and excited.

Each day since, she gets multiple walks a day, and we've settled into a routine of a run or a trip to the dog park every two or three days. With this amount of exercise, she seems to be settling in just fine.

We are working with her on heeling when on a walk, which has been a bit challenging. We had a dog behaviorist over to help us, and we're making progress. You can see in her eyes how intelligent and eager to please she is, I'm sure we'll get her there.

And so you have it.

We have a dog.

OPD Syndrome

Dax in his older but still full-sighted years.

It has been 18 months since our beloved dog Dax left us. Ever since then, the girls have been suffering from what is known as OPD Syndrome. It's characterized by an overpowering need to visit with every dog you see on a walk, to the point that you will cross the street to be on the same side as a dog you see coming, just so you can visit with it.

My friend Nicole's sweet older dog eventually warmed up to their new puppy Kenai.

School friends who own dogs are visited more frequently than those without, and my girls spend more time with their family dog than with their friend.

OPD Syndrome is more commonly known as Other People's Dogs syndrome. 

The only cure? To get a dog of your own.

Ruby, who has found a forever home with my friend Missy and her family.

The start of school this year was particularly stressful for our family. Wayne was home for the first day of school but was on a business trip the rest of the week. One day I came home to find both girls in tears for different reasons. I spent the evening reassuring one, emailing the teacher for the other, reassuring the other, getting everyone fed and so forth. Both girls asked if they could see a dog that evening.

We called a friend and asked if we could take their dog on a walk, to which she readily agreed. When we stepped out the door our next door neighbor was out front with his dog, an intimidating looking mix of Chow and something else big and muscular. Hank the Tank sat in front of Lindsey for some petting, leaning against her more heavily the more she rubbed. Eventually he laid down and let her rub his tummy. Such a tough guy. 

We went on our way and walked Mae, the sweetest goldendoodle and best walker ever. We returned from the walk feeling a bit better, but still not great.

Has anyone see Mae?

After Wayne came back from his trip, he and I were discussing the situation and how both girls were seeking out companionship with dogs during this stressful time. For the first time since Dax died, the conversation opened up to the possibility of getting a dog.

Before I knew it, it had leaked to the girls that we had been having this discussion, and we were being worked on. Promises were being made, lists of all the benefits of dog ownership. We had a family discussion about those promises.

Yes, you SAY you'll walk the dog after school, but when it's 10 below out, are you really going to? And we had a very real discussion about how we know we will outlive the dog. All of our hearts were broken when Dax died -- would the benefits of dog ownership outweigh the eventual heartache? The collective answer was yes. We've drawn up a contract for all family members to sign outlining responsibilities, turning those promises into action. So we hope.

Now the search is on for a rescue to fit into our family. People ask me what we're looking for in a dog. More than likely we'll get a mixed breed, and are just as concerned with temperament as physical features.

• No more than 35-40 lbs
• Preferably between 2 and 5 years of age (We are not up for puppy energy)
• Does not need grooming, preferably short-haired
• Low to moderate energy (a daily walk is all it needs, not a 7-mile run)
• Loves companionship and wants to cuddle
• Good with other dogs
• Trainable

We're most interested in fostering a dog through Second Hand Hounds or other organizations like that, where dogs are placed in foster homes until forever homes can be found. What a great way to ensure that the dog fits within your family before committing to adoption.

Hard to believe that we may once again had a four-legged family member.

Rocky says "Don't worry!" It'll all work out.