Eric and I both share custody of our kids with our exes and we each have different kid schedules. So every week is a mixed up jumble of some of our kids, all of our kids, none of our kids. But every other weekend the planets align and we have an adult only weekend - a weekend in which we try to accomplish all things that are a pain in the ass to do with kids in tow. This past weekend was one of those weekends.
Things that were accomplished:
1. We bought a new (used) camera. This one will not, I repeat will not, suffer the same death as the last one: a horrible drowning in blue Gatorade at the bottom of a diaper bag. It's by far the nicest camera I've ever owned, too nice to even put in a diaper bag. It has its own case. Also, it is our first major purchase together. Looking forward to having some time to figure out how to work it. So far all I've managed is some shots of the kids on auto - but even those look great.
I'm remembering that I took a photography class in college where I learned all about F- stops and shutter speeds, I retained about as much of that as I did of 9th grade algebra.
2. We painted the Ikea bunk bed that we got for Eric's boys. A great orange that looks just right with the summer sky blue and fire engine red that we painted their room on our last adult weekend. It's exciting to be making progress on their room. And they love it.
3. Major Trader Joe's grocery shopping trip. So cute how Eric gets all psyched about things like having breakfast and lunch fixings for his kids at my house. It's the little things like this that help us feel like we're starting our life together, mashing our two families into one.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Lincoln Duncan is my name, and here's my song.
This is Lincoln. He's a complete pain in the ass, and I love him dearly.
He may go down in history as the only pit bull to make it out of St.Paul Animal Control alive. Probably due to the fact that as the malnourished runt that he was as a puppy, he looked more like a chihuahua than a pit bull.
It was the summer of 2000. We were helping out with an animal rescue organization at the time, fostering adorable pit bull puppies for a few days each until they were adopted, which is how we ended up with our first dog, Lydia a year earlier. A steady stream of cute passed in and out of the house, chewing on furniture, peeing on the floor, and breaking our hearts. Homeless pit bulls have a hard lot in life.
And then along came this mangy runt, with nubs for teeth, a nasty rash, bald patches, half starved. Named Maple of all things. And he stayed. Chris would take him, faithfully, to the pet stores each weekend, where rotten little Maple would curl up in a ball in the kennel and stubbornly refuse to be the goofy affectionate cheese ball we knew him to be. Weeks went by. A month. He weaseled his way into our hearts and our lives. And then it was Chris's birthday, and all he claimed to want was to keep the wacky, toothless little monster. I agreed with one caveat, that we change his name.
And so he became our Lincoln. And then my Lincoln.
Nearly ten years have passed. His hair grew back; his teeth did not. He has charmed me with his kool-aid smile, and his marching dance that he will faithfully perform for anyone who will scratch his rear end. He has annoyed me with his penchant for peeing on all vertical surfaces - indoor and out, his endless joy at barking through the fence, taunting Harley, the neighbor dog. He has milked sympathy from me with his fear of folding laundry, thunderstorms and the vet.
And he took care of me, worrying about me throughout my pregnancy, sticking with me through the divorce, eager to lick away tears and sit patiently by the bathtub as I tried to soak away the pain. He has slept next to me in my bed, always under the blanket, stretched down my left side. Tolerated children who climb, and pull, and try to stick their fingers in his nose. Explored the diaper pail and chewed countless pacifiers. Dutifully cleaned up all stray cheerios from under the highchair and rinsed all plates before they were loaded into the dishwasher. He is a couch licker. A pillow humper. A hole digger.
He has jubilantly celebrated every spring with an insane, frantic rush through the muddy back yard, like he's tracing the path of a spirograph or a chain of DNA. Joyously chasing his tail to wish it a happy summer. Then collapsing onto the patio, seemingly lifeless, to absorb the early summer sun.
And now, it is nearly over. My little weasel has a tumor in his spleen. I am watching him wasting away and my heart is breaking for him, and for me. I agonized over the decision of whether or not to try surgery. But considering his age and his fragile psyche and his terror of the vet, I’ve decided to let him go peacefully. He still sleeps with me; he will still march for me, a little. But now, the tears that he licks away are for him.
I hold my breath every day when I come home from work, praying that he’s there to greet me. I am hoping against hope that he will hold on till the spring. I want him to lie on the patio soaking up the sun one last time. And when he’s gone, I want to bury him next to the fence, one last taunt for Harley, the neighbor dog.
He may go down in history as the only pit bull to make it out of St.Paul Animal Control alive. Probably due to the fact that as the malnourished runt that he was as a puppy, he looked more like a chihuahua than a pit bull.
It was the summer of 2000. We were helping out with an animal rescue organization at the time, fostering adorable pit bull puppies for a few days each until they were adopted, which is how we ended up with our first dog, Lydia a year earlier. A steady stream of cute passed in and out of the house, chewing on furniture, peeing on the floor, and breaking our hearts. Homeless pit bulls have a hard lot in life.
And then along came this mangy runt, with nubs for teeth, a nasty rash, bald patches, half starved. Named Maple of all things. And he stayed. Chris would take him, faithfully, to the pet stores each weekend, where rotten little Maple would curl up in a ball in the kennel and stubbornly refuse to be the goofy affectionate cheese ball we knew him to be. Weeks went by. A month. He weaseled his way into our hearts and our lives. And then it was Chris's birthday, and all he claimed to want was to keep the wacky, toothless little monster. I agreed with one caveat, that we change his name.
And so he became our Lincoln. And then my Lincoln.
Nearly ten years have passed. His hair grew back; his teeth did not. He has charmed me with his kool-aid smile, and his marching dance that he will faithfully perform for anyone who will scratch his rear end. He has annoyed me with his penchant for peeing on all vertical surfaces - indoor and out, his endless joy at barking through the fence, taunting Harley, the neighbor dog. He has milked sympathy from me with his fear of folding laundry, thunderstorms and the vet.
And he took care of me, worrying about me throughout my pregnancy, sticking with me through the divorce, eager to lick away tears and sit patiently by the bathtub as I tried to soak away the pain. He has slept next to me in my bed, always under the blanket, stretched down my left side. Tolerated children who climb, and pull, and try to stick their fingers in his nose. Explored the diaper pail and chewed countless pacifiers. Dutifully cleaned up all stray cheerios from under the highchair and rinsed all plates before they were loaded into the dishwasher. He is a couch licker. A pillow humper. A hole digger.
He has jubilantly celebrated every spring with an insane, frantic rush through the muddy back yard, like he's tracing the path of a spirograph or a chain of DNA. Joyously chasing his tail to wish it a happy summer. Then collapsing onto the patio, seemingly lifeless, to absorb the early summer sun.
And now, it is nearly over. My little weasel has a tumor in his spleen. I am watching him wasting away and my heart is breaking for him, and for me. I agonized over the decision of whether or not to try surgery. But considering his age and his fragile psyche and his terror of the vet, I’ve decided to let him go peacefully. He still sleeps with me; he will still march for me, a little. But now, the tears that he licks away are for him.
I hold my breath every day when I come home from work, praying that he’s there to greet me. I am hoping against hope that he will hold on till the spring. I want him to lie on the patio soaking up the sun one last time. And when he’s gone, I want to bury him next to the fence, one last taunt for Harley, the neighbor dog.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
I obey.
me: sometimes i think that you and i will get old and our kids will try to put us away in a home because they'll think we're nuts. but it will just be us cracking each other up with 40 years worth of inside jokes.
Eric: babe the things you say in these little chat windows you should save
me: you mean for posterity?
Eric: for your blog dummy.
yeah i know, i know. i called you dummy. you probably wanna stab me right now.
but i love you, dummy.
me: nah. dummy doesn't bother me.
because nobody calls you a dummy when they really think you're stupid.
Eric: my grandma did
me: dummy is saved for teasing.
i would be mad if you called me, say, a shit for brains ass clown. or a useless fucktard, or stupid crack whore. i bet your grandma never called you that.
Eric: babe the things you say in these little chat windows you should save
me: you mean for posterity?
Eric: for your blog dummy.
yeah i know, i know. i called you dummy. you probably wanna stab me right now.
but i love you, dummy.
me: nah. dummy doesn't bother me.
because nobody calls you a dummy when they really think you're stupid.
Eric: my grandma did
me: dummy is saved for teasing.
i would be mad if you called me, say, a shit for brains ass clown. or a useless fucktard, or stupid crack whore. i bet your grandma never called you that.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
This? This is therapy.
Three years ago, while I was pregnant with my daughter and my husband was in the process of leaving me for another woman, I went to see a therapist.
I had never talked to a mental health professional before, and didn't know what to expect. So I wasn't sure if it's normal for them to stare at you blankly and yawn occasionally while you blather on about how you really don't know why you're here, because you're fine, obviously this is a mistake, you'll just be on your way, and then you break down in a puddle of pathetic sobbing tears....
Anyway. After two one hour sessions, she made this genius diagnosis: I had "a very sad life".
I never went back. Who was she to judge my life? The everything that was my existence. My marriage, my friendships, my childhood, my children?
I look back now and I see. She was right. She was an unprofessional hack. But she had a point.
My life? It used to suck. Now? In your face, shitty therapist. I fixed it. Without you.
I had never talked to a mental health professional before, and didn't know what to expect. So I wasn't sure if it's normal for them to stare at you blankly and yawn occasionally while you blather on about how you really don't know why you're here, because you're fine, obviously this is a mistake, you'll just be on your way, and then you break down in a puddle of pathetic sobbing tears....
Anyway. After two one hour sessions, she made this genius diagnosis: I had "a very sad life".
I never went back. Who was she to judge my life? The everything that was my existence. My marriage, my friendships, my childhood, my children?
I look back now and I see. She was right. She was an unprofessional hack. But she had a point.
My life? It used to suck. Now? In your face, shitty therapist. I fixed it. Without you.
Friday, January 29, 2010
But here's something.
So, I've got this great boyfriend, his name is Eric. We're head over heels. We've been together for about fourteen months and we'd really like to move in together. And here's where that gets interesting: he has two sons, 9 and 6, and a collie. I have a son, 5, and a daughter, 2, and two pit bulls.
Of our two houses, mine is a little bigger and it has a finished basement, a yard and a garage. His is in a better location and is a cooler, but has no yard. So it looks like we'll all be squeezing into my house.
Currently, my house has three bedrooms and one bathroom, which seemed palatial when I bought it, since I share custody of my kids with their dad and I had the whole place to myself half the time. But now it seems so small, so cramped, so... chaotic. But we are determined to make this work. We will fix up half of the finished basement into a room for his boys and someday (hopefully soon) we will look into what it would take to add a half bath down there too.
We will be up to our eyeballs in toy ships and action figures and love.
So this is the beginning of our story. Follow along to see how we deal with things like "little boy toilet" and "which dog (or child) ate the loaf of bread off the kitchen counter"...
Of our two houses, mine is a little bigger and it has a finished basement, a yard and a garage. His is in a better location and is a cooler, but has no yard. So it looks like we'll all be squeezing into my house.
Currently, my house has three bedrooms and one bathroom, which seemed palatial when I bought it, since I share custody of my kids with their dad and I had the whole place to myself half the time. But now it seems so small, so cramped, so... chaotic. But we are determined to make this work. We will fix up half of the finished basement into a room for his boys and someday (hopefully soon) we will look into what it would take to add a half bath down there too.
We will be up to our eyeballs in toy ships and action figures and love.
So this is the beginning of our story. Follow along to see how we deal with things like "little boy toilet" and "which dog (or child) ate the loaf of bread off the kitchen counter"...
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Alarm Clock
You would think that after nearly ten months with me he would know that sleep, to me, is sacred.
I will accept equal guilt in staying up after midnight, telling secrets and giggling. But this morning may be unforgivable.
First, his cell phone alarm went off an entire hour before mine was set to wake me. (queue birds chirping, the sun shining, me muttering curses under my breath.) But the cell phone alarm doesn't wake him up, does it? No. It wakes me up. In blind confusion. Hitting the snooze button on my clock radio. Which turns it ON. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the cell phone is still humming, and now the radio is on too. So I shove him. He hits the snooze on his phone and I fumble to reset my alarm. He goes back to sleep.
All this commotion wakes up the incontinent dog.
I manage to drift back to half-sleep after he gets up to let the dog out and take a shower. But then there he is again. Digging through his clothes, getting dressed.
Coughing.
Coughing in that very specific way that sounds like "Ahem. aHEM. AHEM!" Like he's trying to wake me up.
Then he settles into the armchair by the bed with his computer. AHEM.
"Are you sick, baby?"
"Just this nagging cough."
"I'll say."
And there he sits aheming away, checking his email. And no amount of my groaning and tossing and turning is giving him the hint that it would be really nice if I could could just get twenty more minutes of sleep before my alarm goes off.
And then. And then. He puts his earbuds in and blasts Wu Tang Clan from his computer. So loud that I can hear it across the room from under a pillow.
So I make it to work with enough caffeine to keep at least half-awake till lunch. And I debate all day; should I try to take a walk on my lunch break, or surrender to the back seat of my car for a nap? I can barely keep my eyes open and the nap is calling to me, but I know myself well enough to know that it will be nearly impossible to wake up and function again after a sweaty afternoon car nap.
So I walk. It should wake me up, get the blood pumping. Endorphins and all that crap. But every ten steps the lush green grass along the neatly paved walking paths calls out me. I'm listening to a book on my ipod, drinking a diet coke as big as my head, and power walking through the office park and all I can think about is curling up in a ball in the soft green manicured grass and taking a long, long nap.
I will go home tonight, and tell him about my day, about my walk, about my napping in the grass fantasy. I will make him tea for his cough. And we will stay up past midnight telling secrets and giggling.
I will accept equal guilt in staying up after midnight, telling secrets and giggling. But this morning may be unforgivable.
First, his cell phone alarm went off an entire hour before mine was set to wake me. (queue birds chirping, the sun shining, me muttering curses under my breath.) But the cell phone alarm doesn't wake him up, does it? No. It wakes me up. In blind confusion. Hitting the snooze button on my clock radio. Which turns it ON. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the cell phone is still humming, and now the radio is on too. So I shove him. He hits the snooze on his phone and I fumble to reset my alarm. He goes back to sleep.
All this commotion wakes up the incontinent dog.
I manage to drift back to half-sleep after he gets up to let the dog out and take a shower. But then there he is again. Digging through his clothes, getting dressed.
Coughing.
Coughing in that very specific way that sounds like "Ahem. aHEM. AHEM!" Like he's trying to wake me up.
Then he settles into the armchair by the bed with his computer. AHEM.
"Are you sick, baby?"
"Just this nagging cough."
"I'll say."
And there he sits aheming away, checking his email. And no amount of my groaning and tossing and turning is giving him the hint that it would be really nice if I could could just get twenty more minutes of sleep before my alarm goes off.
And then. And then. He puts his earbuds in and blasts Wu Tang Clan from his computer. So loud that I can hear it across the room from under a pillow.
So I make it to work with enough caffeine to keep at least half-awake till lunch. And I debate all day; should I try to take a walk on my lunch break, or surrender to the back seat of my car for a nap? I can barely keep my eyes open and the nap is calling to me, but I know myself well enough to know that it will be nearly impossible to wake up and function again after a sweaty afternoon car nap.
So I walk. It should wake me up, get the blood pumping. Endorphins and all that crap. But every ten steps the lush green grass along the neatly paved walking paths calls out me. I'm listening to a book on my ipod, drinking a diet coke as big as my head, and power walking through the office park and all I can think about is curling up in a ball in the soft green manicured grass and taking a long, long nap.
I will go home tonight, and tell him about my day, about my walk, about my napping in the grass fantasy. I will make him tea for his cough. And we will stay up past midnight telling secrets and giggling.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
fascinating things i could blog about
the trials of having a geriatric, overweight, incontinent pit bull.
the funny things my kids say. like for instance on sunday, when Lucas and I had an argument where he insisted that I had a penis. He offered the fact that I peed on the potty as proof.
getting up the nerve to start my own business vs. going back to school
mouse-proofing my house
un-gardening
seasteading (my current unrealistic dream future, which would allow me to be queen of my own country)
plus lots of other fun and funny things that i could say if this was anonymous.
which is a thought. hmmm.
the funny things my kids say. like for instance on sunday, when Lucas and I had an argument where he insisted that I had a penis. He offered the fact that I peed on the potty as proof.
getting up the nerve to start my own business vs. going back to school
mouse-proofing my house
un-gardening
seasteading (my current unrealistic dream future, which would allow me to be queen of my own country)
plus lots of other fun and funny things that i could say if this was anonymous.
which is a thought. hmmm.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Never Let Me Go
So we were at that wedding last weekend. One of Eric's oldest, and once, closest friends got married. Eric and another high school friend spent the weekend stunned and dismayed at how much their friend had changed. Without putting too much detail out into the internet, I'll just say that he is no longer the person he was when they were young. He chose a different path. One that they couldn't understand and couldn't follow.
And the question for them was: what now? What do you do when your best friend joins a cult, becomes a drug addict, turns tricks, or makes whatever other radical choice that's going turn them into someone you just don't know anymore? When is it OK to just let them go? I mean obviously, if they're doing something harmful to themselves, you're going to try to stop them. Interventions and shit. But what if it's not that extreme? What if it's something that you just don't understand? Like they start listening to Nickleback or get a swastika tattooed on their face?
I've been there. My cousin Kim and I were as close as sisters. People who didn't know we were related thought we were a couple. We grew up together, shared everything, knew each other completely and loved each other deeply. And then, we didn't.
There are too many reasons why to name them, nothing sudden. No falling out, we just drifted. Now she lives far far away, off the grid. We're related, so I know she's still out there. But beyond that, I have no idea. I still think about her every day. I can't think about my childhood, or teens, or even my 20s without thinking about her. But she isn't who she was then. Or is it me? I dunno. Maybe I'm the one who changed.
Someday I'll tell you the story about the time she begged me to let her stick a steak knife up my nose to prove that I loved her.
And the question for them was: what now? What do you do when your best friend joins a cult, becomes a drug addict, turns tricks, or makes whatever other radical choice that's going turn them into someone you just don't know anymore? When is it OK to just let them go? I mean obviously, if they're doing something harmful to themselves, you're going to try to stop them. Interventions and shit. But what if it's not that extreme? What if it's something that you just don't understand? Like they start listening to Nickleback or get a swastika tattooed on their face?
I've been there. My cousin Kim and I were as close as sisters. People who didn't know we were related thought we were a couple. We grew up together, shared everything, knew each other completely and loved each other deeply. And then, we didn't.
There are too many reasons why to name them, nothing sudden. No falling out, we just drifted. Now she lives far far away, off the grid. We're related, so I know she's still out there. But beyond that, I have no idea. I still think about her every day. I can't think about my childhood, or teens, or even my 20s without thinking about her. But she isn't who she was then. Or is it me? I dunno. Maybe I'm the one who changed.
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Friday, June 5, 2009
House
Lucas: Mom, our house is kind of dirty. Maybe we should get a new one.
Me: How about if we just clean this one?
Lucas: We should get some diggers to come and break up this house so they can build us a new one.
Me: Where will we live while they're building us a new house?
Lucas: Grandma Sue's.
Me: How about if we just clean this one?
Lucas: We should get some diggers to come and break up this house so they can build us a new one.
Me: Where will we live while they're building us a new house?
Lucas: Grandma Sue's.
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