Canine Babies vs. Human Babies

I honestly don't know which poses a bigger personal challenge right now - puppy or human training. Of course, we've already realized many immediate benefits upon bringing our new puppy home. A pup already knows how to walk, talk and eat by itself. There are no diapers and no nursing (ouch - that would hurt). We've managed to keep soiling in the house at bay quite easily, and there isn't a whole lot of crying. Getting Ella to sleep through the night took less than a week. Sounds ideal, really.

But that whole biting stage can hurl things into a twister pretty quickly. Coming up on three weeks in our home and our soft, sweet canine is still biting the hands that feed her. All members of the family are sporting fresh puncture wounds each day and at least two of the three kids have taken to screaming and running away from Ella whenever she looks askance. My husband and I have flipped through a dozen dog training books trying to get a handle on the right approach. Just bought the bitter spray today - we'll give that a whirl. I'll keep you posted. In the meantime, email me if you have any skin-saving techniques for us to try.

Playing to an Audience

It occurs to me when I think about what to write next, and how I relate to my job as mother, that the easiest part of my job is behind me. In fact, I laugh when I remember my pregnant self and the trepidation I felt waiting to actually begin parenting. Looking back at my early foibles and missteps which sometimes overshadowed the sleep-deprived noose of caring for infants and toddlers, I have the gift of hindsight. I could have done anything with or to my very young children, and the generic responses were few - a scream or a good-old, gut-wrenching cry. I think back to diaper blowouts at the mall, and I remember times when I forced red and rigid screamers into car seats, or took away sippy cups cold-turkey. For the most part, these moments were performed without audience. As my children have grown older, exercising their ability to articulate thought with meaningful words, they wield feedback I would shun from the most tyrannical boss. Kids become an audience of critics and hecklers that grows stronger with every birthday.

Blogger Backstory I

When my middle child - my boy - was four years old, he wasn't always quite himself. For a while, he insisted that everyone call him "Rockstar". So picture me dropping him off at preschool, when one of the other parents said something benign, like - "Hey Aidan, I like your shirt". Aidan would swoop in with a swift correction, "Rockstar, call me Rockstar". Believe it or not, the day finally arrived when he no longer wanted to be called Rockstar. He continued, however, to speak fondly of his friend Yo-yo which he did for more than a year. Apparently, Aidan and Yo-yo went to car school together (don't ask) and a day didn't go by when we didn't hear of some plan or another that Aidan had made with Yo-yo. At least "Nother Mother" was finally gone. We used to hear of Aidan's Nother Mother who always drove a cooler car and routinely let Aidan do things that I, his real mother, wouldn't let him do.

Let's make Whoopi

Nora needs to start kindergarten. I mean, there's such a thing as too much fun with a whoopi cushion. Together my daughter and I logged in a lot of time with one today and it is with pure delight and admiration that I admit her technique for inflating one is superior to my own. We're now the proud owners of two of them thanks to the clarity of mind that must have possessed our friends. I can picture them striding through the aisles of Party City, when one notices a glowing pile of orange whoopi cushions, deflated and inconspicuous, triggering an aha moment as they both say, "yes, whoopi cushions, our search for party favors is over". Nora and I tried to out-do each other while showboating our flare for farting. Of course, she didn't realize she was in the presence of a master (and I never used to use props). When you spend 85 waking hours a week in the world of a 5-year-old, and she in yours, there's bound to be some cross-over. On any given day, for example, we're both likely to have a tantrum or two. The difference is that the one I'm having is invisible. As luck would have it, kindergarten is a mere season away. But thanks to half day kindergarten, I'll still get to enjoy 71 hours a week in the wacky, wonderful world of the under six set.

Dump Bike

"Mom, please tell Nora that her bike came from the dump, and not the bike shop." In my head I picture the transfer station and think free pile, please. This is the scene as my older daughter crashes through the garage door like Kool-Aid. Nora is at least a few lengths behind, but broaching hysteria at the thought that her bike was acquired so meanly. I spend the next five minutes (wringing my hands) extolling the virtues of used items. "A little kids' bike is used for such a short time", I tell her, "why would we spend money on it when we can get it for free...(yada yada yada)". I trail off completely unheard, "of course noodle, we'll spend heaps of money on a bike once you're grown". Nora begs me for the truth - that is, the only truth she can handle -- that her bike was purchased brand spanking new, by her parents, at a proper bike shop. Then I remember the white wicker basket decorated with faux silk flowers and the fact that it was purchased by me, for her, at a bike shop. Heck, I even paid full-price and I didn't dare think about hunting down a cheaper version at Walmart. After all, it was the least I could do to let my little girl know how special she was to have a brand new bicycle... (wait for it) - basket.

New Pets and Old Loves

It's hard to be funny when your dog dies. What started out as a vacation-induced respite from blogging has grown to include my hazy days of grief. Rudy was by my side for thirteen years and no dog will ever replace her. She died on May 19th, and I haven't felt like writing for weeks - I still don't. But we're getting a new puppy on the 4th of July, so it's time to get my head around that. Our family moments have been singly focused on finding the perfect name for our new dog. This consumption has been exhausting and I've taken to spouting wildly inappropriate suggestions whenever inspiration strikes. Names like Maggot and Tree Frog, Pickles and Cereal, Chardonay and Vader have been fielded and dropped. I'm inclined to think that the name doesn't matter too much. All the same, I've been jotting top picks on the chalkboard in the kitchen. This morning when my son noticed a new entry left behind from an erased grocery list, he chimed in with his endorsement for the name Cool Whip.

I can't make this stuff up

So after a 9-day cruise through the eastern Caribbean with my family, I am again reminded that the ability to suspend reality is alive and well among our children (mine at least). After five days of cruising, dancing, sporting, swimming, eating, et cetera, we disembarked in St. Thomas where we hopped an open-air bus, and rode for thirty minutes up steep hillsides with nary space for a passing iguana. At last we arrived at breathtaking Coki Beach, known for its incredible reefs ideal for snorkeling and scuba diving. We rented snorkels, masks and fins, and hit the reefs for the rest of the day, feeding dog biscuits to some of the most gorgeous scaled creatures we'd ever seen in the wild. Breaking for lunch, I sat beside my 5 year-old on a lounge chair, toes dug deep into the hot sand, when she asked, "Are we still on the cruise ship?"