Rooted

I told my husband I'm not going.

We don't really know where the military will send us yet (Desert Monitor wasn't very telling) but we do know it's either really close or pretty damn far.

I once was totally fine with pretty damn far but now I'm getting older and quite stubborn.  It also seems the older I get the harder it is for me to push our lives deep into the earth to make roots, water those twisty curls, prune them every so often when they threaten to strangle the mother tree, and nurture each underground vine long enough to see them evolve into a colony all their own. Its own life sustaining village.

I can't move my entire village.  My mom, step dad, uncle, and brothers (two of the four) live an hour or less away.  My childhood home (pictured above) is still within reach, my grandparents' final resting place is 15 minutes away.  Our children's friends, schools, dance studios, pediatricians, specialists, and favorite fishing holes are here. Target and Pho51 and SweetFrog will never live without me.  My network of mommy friends who have been my scaffolding, a beacon of wine and Triple Sec, the raison d'laugh and cry live here. 

So, I'm not going.  WE are not going.

Our roots have begun to spread, tendril out and dig down into the sticky, tacky, good dirt.  From where new things grow and thrive. 
 
Really damn far will just have to make an offer to some other family that wants great food, Cajun music, and sweltering heat. 

Cause this family is just fine planted here.

Sparrow

A crow fell from the sky the night before Tillie died.

I missed the whole thing because I was busy emailing my vet about Tillie who was hiding in our bushes and not coming out.

Grayson, Abby and Andy were roasting marshmallows in our backyard fire pit when the bird landed, motionless, just a few feet away from them.

Andy called to me, "Honey.  There's a dead bird here, can you come over?" like he was asking me to bring him his coffee mug.

If you've been visiting here for long, you have already guessed that I took the bird falling from the sky as an omen that Tillie wasn't going to live through the night.  I am completely rational like that.

Also, I had a knot in my stomach once she fell ill because of this dream I had a month (to the day!) prior to her getting sick.

In retrospect, I should've known we were losing her but I downright refused to (for once) believe in signs.

Needless to say, I struggled with her death for many reasons.  It doesn't need rehashing here.  Suffice it to say there are few things I can't talk about without tearing up but Tillie is one of them.  Her golden eyes drive me right back to that horrible night at the vet hospital where everything that could've gone wrong did.

 

 (Andy's surprise anniversary gift to me.  I still can hardly look at it but it helps to have her beautiful face in our home again.)

I have had trouble looking at those golden eyes in pictures ever since.  It brings comfort but it also brings a slew of other things I'm not sure I know what to do with.

 

Andy was missing her hard too.  He was the one to suggest we get another dog soon after Tillie died to help with grieving her.  I wasn't ready.  I said no.

Actually, I said hello no. 

Then he asked again.  I said no but maybe later.

And with that promise of future happy I jumped online to look at some yellow male labs for maybe later.

A few weeks of this behavior and I became obsessed with a sad faced scrappy guy I found online named Gunther.  He was a flea-bitten wreck of a dog and reminded me nothing of Tillie so I had to meet him.

We went to an adoption event to find him a few days later.

"May I help you?" asked a lady holding a dear mama basset hound.

"Oh, is this Martha? I answered, wondering if maybe we could get a Martha since she was not even remotely black labbish.

"Yes, this is Martha.  She is very sweet and loves everyone."

"Actually, we are here to see..." I tried to finish but a tiny powerhouse interrupted as she ran underneath Martha to greet me.  This one's name was Petunia and Petunia was a chihuahua.  Andy was willing to entertain a basset but never a chihuahua so we were safe.

I blissed out in dog heaven petting and shmoozing for a minute forgetting why we came.

"Honey, look ...lab."  Andy pointed down the aisle.  I assumed he meant Gunther so I stood up, patted Petunia and Martha one last time and mentally prepared myself to meet the reason we came.

"Oh, Hi.  Yes, you are very sweet but no, we are here to see...Ohhh my goodness such kisses, Hi baby you are very lovely but I just can't...you are...oh my goodness, such love, all the kisses, Hiiiiii."

"This is Shasta," says the smiling woman who is holding a skinny female black lab.  "Have you been here before?  Shasta is acting like she knows you."

"Oh no, we're not...Hi Shasta, you are so sweet but we are not looking for...we are only here to..."

"Down, Shasta, down.  I'm sorry, ma'am she doesn't usually do that.  She is usually very shy.  Are you sure you two haven't met before?  She is really acting like she knows you."

 

Andy and I give each other a face.  I bend down and whisper in Shasta's ear, "Tillie?  Is that you?"

 

She's not.  At least I don't think she is.  In fact, she is not even Shasta anymore.  We call her Sparrow.  And Sparrow is a spitfire who has energy to waste and long deep sighful naps to take.  On the couch.

 

Sparrow is a gift from somewhere I choose to believe in because.  Because she has a feather on her chest.  A feather!  Because she climbed my body to give me kisses the second I was within reach and so not at all looking for a girl black lab.  Because she is so funny she makes me laugh instead of cry and play instead of mope.

Plus?  Sadie really likes her.

There just won't be another Tillie as long as we live so the best thing we can do is adopt another dog who needs a loving home and lots of salmon steak.  Sparrow flew into our lives just when Tillie had to fly out.

See the feather?

 So far it all makes plenty of sense to me.  

Airports

As parents we are always trying to foster independence in our children.

• Pick up your room.
• Put on your shoes.
• Brush your own teeth.
• Empty your own wastebasket.
• Dirty pajamas go in the hamper, not crammed behind the bathroom door and left for ruins.

Then the thought occurred to me.  We know why we do this.  But do they?

So this morning, before school, I asked the kids why they thought we wanted them to do more for themselves lately.

"Because you are so tired."  Grayson blurts out automatically.   Oy vey.

"Because I'm SIX now, Mommy!" Abby sings even though she just turned three.

"Because one day you will be bigger and you will need to know how to do these things for yourself.  Mommy and Daddy won't be there to do it for you."  

Silence.  

You'd think they'd ask where we would be.  Where they would be.  What would happen to our little happy family when they grew up? 

"I'm going to be a Marine," announces a very decisive little boy.

"And I'm going to be a DOCTOR!" Abby declares with two gummy vitamins crammed in one side of her face.

Good.  Nobody wonders about the elusive aging process or why we, their parents, will not be still tying shoes on the stairwell or harping on jackets in the doorway when they are bigger.  Innately, they must get that they will eventually be in charge of themselves.  Masters of their own bodies.  Engineers of their Own Fates.  Decision Makers, Drivers, Conversation Starters, Zipper Pullers, Accountants, Cooks, Cleaner Uppers, Girlfriends, Boyfriends, Broken Hearted Souls, Home Owners, Victims of Internet Scams...  

I think I need a paper bag.

No, this is good.  I don't want them to worry.

Seconds later, in the car, Grayson asks if you can drive to San Diego.  

"Yes, you can drive but it's faster to take a plane."

"Yeah, but where do you sleep?"

"Ummmm, sleep?"

"Yeah. When you go to San Diego, where do you sleep? Do they show you?  How do you know where to go? Like, are there beds in the Air-O-ports or how do you know where to go? Does everyone get off the plane, you follow them, and I mean, what happens next?"

Okay, I finally get it.

"You mean like when DADDY goes to San Diego because he's a Marine, where does he sleep? "

"Yeah, I'm gonna need to know all of this if I'm going to be a Marine, Mom."

"Yes, I suppose you are right, Honey.  But you will.  You will learn all of this and we will show you an airport and Oh My God, I'm so sorry I made you clean up the mess in the kitchen before we left.  There is time, Honey.  There is plenty of time to learn so try not to worry about it all now."

So you see, Dear Mommy Who is Pushing Independence Like it's Happening Tomorrow, slow it down.  There is time.

Don't rush them.

 

You will regret it if you do.

Turtles and Lima Beans

Shopping is weird for me. There was a time when I could go into any store, find the item, walk straight to check-out, and return back to my car before forgetting where I parked it. Now, I have lost the ability to be quick about any of this. And I always, always forget where I park. It doesn't matter what item is in question- shoes, yogurt, sharpies, whatever-I'm at least a 45 minute girl, walking back out into the parking lot hours later in a fog, not making eye contact with anyone because somehow they can all see into my soul and know I had been in that store way longer than was socially acceptable.

Just today, while running errands with entire family in tow, I made my husband take me to a bead store (gift card from Christmas-we're moving on Tuesday, I'm Last Minute Mary). It's a very pretty bead store but shit, it's just a bead store. And it's maybe as large as a two-car garage. Would you know I walked in there with the knowledge that I was picking something out for "free" because the money had already been spent and is now circulating America, probably cruising the strip at Wildwood, NJ for the holiday weekend? And yet, AND YET, I still had two missed calls from my husband (who, P.S., was parked in our minivan about 50 feet away in the lot stranded with our Toddler Cranky and our Tylenol-Teething Baby Cranky) because I was in there for 45 minutes!! Doing what exactly? I'm glad you asked. One has the right to know...

You'd think I was sipping on a nice lemonade spritzer while getting a foot massage and trying on some lovely glass beaded anklets. You'd be mistaken (optimistic but mistaken just the same). You'd think I was in their back room taking in the latest Dane Cook live show while fastening wire necklaces and gem-saturated bracelets. You'd be mistaken once again. You'd think I was turning over every single last pretty little bead in my hand wondering, "What the poop can I make with YOU!" Bingo. While these beads were deliciously glossy and supremely colorful, I was terribly confused. It was no place for me and my recent inability to make a split decision out of the home to save my kidney. Probably there is a term for this. Domestic Amnesia? MommyDoesn'tDecideWellDisorder? SplitDecisionHomeMakermyalgia?

Finally, after chatting with the owner's daughter for a good 37 minutes over round-nose, flat-edged, and I'm pretty sure a serrated kind of tweezer/plier thing, I decided on some jewelry. Already handmade jewelry. How hard is that?

Apparently it's get-lost-in-DC-and-never-get-out-of-the-grid-city-nightmare difficult. Not that I've done that.

It must be because I'm only accustomed to doing 17 things all at once that this one single task, hell CHORE, was too much for my hyper-functioning gray matter but I did not choose wisely. Since we snuggled and spooned and logged in so much quality time, this bead store and I, you'd think I would've selected some nice accouterments as my going away gift. Not so. I picked out the worst of the best. I'm showing you. Seriously, take a look and decide for yourself.

A purple ring I like to call "Turtle" and these earrings. They don't have names yet; they are that ugly. The Cabbage Patch of danglies perhaps. Maybe I'll call them Lima Beans because if there's one awful thing it is a lima bean. My husband said it best. He says, "The ring, it's fine. The earrings? They're so busy and...well...yellow." He's right. They're yellow. In the store I had myself convinced they were classicaly sage or heirloom chartreuse. They're not. They're hideous and worse yet, pearly, and weird and not at all what I had in mind. Panic purchase.

So, to celebrate today's monumental indecisiveness, I'm keeping them. Better than that? I'm wearing them right now. Take that, right side of my brain. You have left me all alone with yet another gift card panic purchase and now you have to look at these cataract avacados all day long. That'll teach ya.