Going Back to School While Doing Life

        After convincing a 15 year old Bean to accompany me to the college campus, I pulled into the tree-lined parking lot and questioned my decision making skills. A skill I have flunked more than once in my life.

       I still wasn't sure if I was making the best decision. A life time had passed since I was college student.

       I made this current decision on a long five-hour drive home - after two equally long airplane flights - from a funeral.

      I think experts warn against such decision making. Good thing for me, I'm horrible at listening to experts.

        Bean stares at me, with the way she can, all impatience and a bundle of energy that I used to channel by having her run endless circles around the kitchen table. She fidgets with her seat belt, and frowns at the campus.

       I know she thinks I brought her along to convince her that college should be a future goal.

       I haven't.

       I have simply brought her for her company. And support.

       Even though I had decided to enroll in all online classes, so I can try to balance my role of mommy around the demands of homework, discussions, and quizzes - I still thought it was best to chat with my assigned mentor, in person- on which classes I should start with.

      So hence, the hour drive to campus to make human contact.

    Five months ago, on that long- February chilly drive home, carrying a numbness in my heart, and unshed tears behind my eyes, it was decided an accounting degree would be my best bet. It would pay well upon graduation - a very important point with me, since I was no longer that naive 20 year old who believed you could make a living off of hopes and dreams.

        And I needed a career that would work with my Crohn's. Because control is just me having the upper hand- it doesn't mean I can forget I have it.

       The only problem with this plan was every time I thought about this degree it felt like trying to shove a square peg into a round hole- just about chest level.

     But here I was, stepping onto the tidy green lawn of the summer-quiet college campus, having registered as a business major.

    Registering for classes was a group endeavor- consisting of transfer students - like me, sort of.

    Bean and I step into the room where we are suppose to meet together, and it is full of kids not much older than Bean and their parents.

    The smiling and perky college employee looks straight at Bean and asks her if she's here to register.

   Nope, that would be me. The 'mom figure' with crinkles around her eyes, thirty- ish more pounds than the first time I registered for college classes, a mortgage, three kids and a belly that looks like a road map.

   She startles, as if she has never registered someone in their thirties before for college and proceeds to sign me in.

   Bean and I sit down and wait, and people watch. Later she tells me. "You know I wouldn't need you there when I register for college. They all had their parents with them and they had associates degrees. How are they going to survive the real world?"

   Of course, this is coming from the kid who has told me I don't need to attend her open house for 10th grade. She was going with friends to meet her teachers and I didn't need to worry about it. I don't think you understand kid, I've been going to open houses for you since Kindergarten and you want me to stop now? But that would mean I would have to admit you're growing up...

    and able to function without me. Which was my ultimate goal...still it's hard.

   When the entire group has arrived for registration, we are taken to the computer lab and asked to sign in.

   Umm, slight problem. I had already logged in at home and changed my password. And forgot mentioned password at home.

  After obtaining help from another perky employee - I think it's in the mass amounts of cafeteria coffee they are consuming - I have managed to change my password and log in.

  Where I attempt to register for that first and extremely important accounting class, which is the basis for all the other subsequent accounting classes I need, and find that the class is full.

  And the other section is full. And I can't even take Acct 101 in town at the outreach campus, because that class is full.

  And is everyone in the world deciding to be an accountant?

  Of course, this starts a chain reaction of which classes I should sign up for, because you have to have Acct 101 before so many other business classes. And it's not offered next semester, so I would have to wait until next fall.

   I am feeling a little flustered at this point and start to make mistakes with the online registering, which Bean is quietly pointing out and helping me to the right pages. I have been on computers since games were played with DOS commands, yet I am fumbling my way through a simple online sign up form.

  The perky employee kindly helps, but I knows she's thinking I'm having trouble because of my age.

  And before you ask, wondering why I'm not obtaining a journalism degree - had you seen the job statistics on journalism and the pay?

  No, I'm as undecided as I was when I was young. Except not completely - my thoughts have circled around to graduate school but that seems too far into the future to plan. Yet, one of the classes I sign up for - I don't need for my bachelor's degree - I'm taking it because I need it to get into the graduate program I'm tentatively thinking about.

    I register for four classes and we leave. And then I decide we need Mexican food. We use Siri to direct us to the local favorite place for tacos and spicy, and I don't get lost. Not that you can really get lost in this tiny college town - just misplaced.

   

   

  



     

Grandma's Shoes

 Life in the State of Dying

            I kneel on the carpet, in front of the carefully lined up rows of plastic shoe containers. Each one labeled with the style and color of the shoes inside. In some styles of shoes my Grandma had bought five different colors, so she could properly match her shoes with her outfits.
      Most of the shoes won't ever enclose her feet again- the cancer has started to effect every aspect of her bodily functions and her legs and feet are painfully swelling up. Slippers still fit- barely.
     
        The day is late and cold. Although it is May and everyone should be out in their yards planting and weeding- people are preparing for a blizzard. So buckets cover delicate new plants and sheets are spread across flowers beds -- a sheet won't keep the cold, wet snow from damaging the plants- but the hopeful gardeners crosses their fingers and hope that Mother Nature isn't too brutal.
   
      My Grandma, who suddenly went from walking with a cane last week, to needing a wheelchair this week- sits in her pajamas- everyday she is less likely to dress, which for a woman who was always dressed in carefully pressed skirts and blouses- and the collar carefully adorned with one of her pins- it is an unsettling sight.

     She sits in her wheelchair next to me- holding one of Grandpa's shirts, an equally pressed long sleeved buttoned down Western shirt in white with a small floral print on it- but a masculine floral print- the colors in orange and yellow and red.
      Her fingers, which have become quite gnarly and slender in just the past weeks, plays with the fabric.
     "I should throw this out," she says, as her fingers tangle tighter in the fabric. "It's so thin bare, he can't wear it anymore."
    I wait, knowing from the far off look in her eyes that she wants to say more. Bean, who is helping me sort shoes and clothes, is patiently waiting, shifting back and forth on her feet, obviously in her teenage hood not sure what to say and for being Bean and having a habit of always saying the wrong thing- is practicing her nodding a lot this afternoon. She knows her great-grandma is dying- she knows we're helping her sort her material life from the journey she is embarking on- and she doesn't have the experience to say anything that makes this task even easier.

     And so she nods and without complaining- has been helping me vacuum my grandparent's house, and even scrubbing their bathrooms. There are very few words I can say to her, except, "good job kid."

   Grandma knots her fingers in the fabric. "I can't throw it away yet."
   I look up into her face. "Grandma, you don't have to. We'll put it on the shelf."
   "There's a story to it. When your Grandpa used to work at the church doing the lawn mowing, he would sometimes get attacked by bees. We finally figured it out it was only when he was wearing this shirt. They liked it."
    I chuckle along with her, remembering a time when my Grandpa wasn't bound by an oxygen cord and giant tanks of oxygen- when he could walk without taking deep breaths of air because otherwise he wasn't taking in enough breath to make his legs function. The deep guttural sounds he has to make to force enough air into lungs as he shuffles across the floor startled Abu at first- she thought he was going to die right then and there. Now I notices she discreetly watches him- ready to help if he should need it.
    
   I take the shirt and gently place it on the shelf. When they are gone, I'm not sure if I'll be able to toss the shirt- she has given it life, attaching a story to it. A memory. Meaning.
   Damn it. I didn't think helping Grandma sort her closet and drawers would be so difficult, but a few times I have to take a deep breath and force the tears back.
 
  "I can't believe it's going to snow," she says. "I didn't need to see snow one more time."

     Before she goes.

      "Now you get to see Grandma's secret." She says with a huge grin.
      I chuckle. "All your shoes?" It's no secret- I know she has a love of shoes and the dozen upon dozen of pairs attest to it.
     "Now I know where Bean gets her love of shoes from. Do you know when she was two I could keep her busy for hours if I gave her a shoe catalog?"
   Bean wrinkles her nose and then she laughs. She can't deny her love of shoes either. If she didn't have giant feet, she wouldn't mind trying on some of Grandma's shoes. They aren't old lady styles- they are fashionable and elegant and classy.

       Just classic.
   
     Bean helps me sort. We have a pile to try to sell to the consignment store, a pile for donation, and a trash pile.
   Only one pair of shoes goes into the trash pile- the others have been so well taken care of- they can be shared. If we had the same foot size, she would have given them to me- for interviews at my paper job. The pride I hear in her voice when she mentions my paper job. She has read every article I have written and saved all of them.
   "Front page, huh?" She smiles. My latest article actually made the front page just the day before and she mentions that when we sort her clothes she's hoping that there are some items I can wear for my professional career.

     
      Grandma is tired after we finish sorting the shoes, so the clothes will have to wait until after the weekend. Sunday is Mother's Day and I know my Mom plans on bringing her some wonderfully beautiful flowers in a pretty vase.
     Grandma's last Mother's Day. My Mom's last chance to give her mother something for Mother's Day. The day will be bittersweet.
     I know my Mom will not say what she really wants to say- sharing emotions doesn't come easy for her and I'm hoping that the flowers speak volumes to my Grandma.
   Mom has been going over there every day, cooking meals and tending to them.

Her chronic pain condition makes it difficult- love makes it happen. 

    When we go to leave, Baby Blueberry skips over to my Grandma and gives her a huge hug, she skips over oxygen cords and gives my Grandpa an equally big hug with tiny pudgy arms. She doesn't understand, but there is an understanding in her eyes that seems so wise for a two year old. She knows they need the love and in her generous spirit she gives it.
   Her easily given hugs thrill them and they talk about it with my Mom, who is staying to serve them the spaghetti she made, after we leave.

   In the car I tell the girls thank you for the help. Thanks to Bean for helping make their bed, to the extreme specific way my Grandma wanted it and for helping sort her shoes. She nods, and says, "the old people need help." A typical teenage nonchalant statement, but her patience and compassion she displays with them shows me so much more.
   Abu says she doesn't mind playing with Baby Blueberry while I do stuff and asks wasn't I proud of her for watching her for so long.
   Yes, I answer, thinking of their sweetness as they played together, but then my thoughts drift to the boxes of shoes in my car. I wish I didn't have to drop them off. To separate this material life from what comes next.
   But it comes.

  When I arrive home, I look around at the stuff that surrounds me and realize I don't own any of it. I'm borrowing it, using it, enjoying it, but one day- it gets sorted and divided- some kept- some tossed-
     and so I spend the evening dancing and being goofy with my girls and then get down on the floor and play unicorns and princesses with Blueberry.

   And I realize as I pen this blog, that for the rest of my life when I think about the process of dying- I will think about boxes of shoes, a certain teenager helping me put freshly laundered bedsheets on my grandparent's bed, well-loved shirts that aren't meant for the trash, skipping toddlers with pudgy little arms full of love, and a tired Mom cooking her parents spaghetti. 

   

When Life Kicks You in the Butt- Run and Hide

4 Tips to A Better State of Gratitude - 

What? Me? Give Tips? Ha! You're on the Wrong Blog :-)

Baby Blueberry and Oscar

Meet Oscar. He's a friendship turtle. Actually, I think he's a Western painted turtle. Here is a photo of his colorful underside. Tattoo lovers be like jelly- this guy is born with ink. 

He came to us from some very dear friends that were moving overseas and couldn't take him. So one crisp autumn night, they bring him over, along with his tank, and some containers full of misc. turtle requirements. I did not know one small reptile needed so much stuff. How would I ever remember the instructions on how to care for him?

But for being simply a turtle- ha, he's more than a turtle, this guy has personality, as my friend says, "like a t-rex with a shell"- he has his way of communicating. Like when he's hungry- he does this when I get close to his tank.

Back and forth he swims in his tank until we pay attention to him. My friend fed him in a dog dish, so his tank would stay cleaner - longer, and so since I'm all for time-saving cleaning ideas- I kept up with the idea. We put him in a dog dish- ahh, a turtle feeding dish- and give him shrimp. We also bought night crawlers for him, which he thinks are the tastiest critters to feast on. The worms disagree with his opinion. Greatly disagree and it's difficult for this soft-hearted gal to feed him living worms.

 Later this week I will write a blog about how the cute and ahh- not cuddly- but friendly Oscar  turns into a cold-blooded killer turtle when fed a worm. 

But for right now, I did promise 4 tips, so I've better write some sappy stuff this morning. 

1. God has a tendency to speak to us, even if it's not through a burning bush. Although, a talking, burning bush would be cool- I would probably grab the hose and dose the flames before listening to any message. It's a safety thing. But here's the story...next month I lose disability, which cuts our income by quite a bit. Perhaps our house payment. Ouch. I was feeling a bit upset by this and worried and generally just stressed beyond belief. When Hero Hottie reminded me I should be feeling grateful.

       "Uhh, how much wine have you been drinking, honey?" I was getting ready to take Bean to her early morning dance class, so of course Hero Hottie had not been drinking but still I had to wonder.

       "None. No, we should feel grateful." He looked dead serious. My honey, who is more cynic than positive, more bitter than sweet, more doubting than faithful- was telling me to be grateful over a significant lost of income. 

       "Okay, I give up. Please explain." Where was that wine? 

        "We found out before I get my yearly bonus. Now we have a plan. We use the yearly bonus to pay most of the house payment for the year. If we had found out after my bonus, we probably would have spent it and then we wouldn't have that money for the house payment. God let us know in perfect timing to save our asses." 

       Simple. (And also, this plan allows the girls to keep their dance classes, which is so important to them.)

       I know we would have spent it. I had plans to find myself a beach and camp out for two weeks. Without moving. Except maybe my toes in the sand. 

Alright, I probably wouldn't even had done that- I would have paid off Abu's braces. But still, we would have spent it.

    

        Instead we had money for our house payment without me having to rush out and trying to work full-time, even though my Crohn's is seriously screwed up right now. 

     But just to drive the point home, when I stopped at the store after dropping Bean after and my mind was still trying to wrap itself around the concept of gratitude, the car in front of me had a speciality license plate- and it read 'gratful'   Good one, God. - good one.

    

2. I just found out my Grandma's cancer has spread and she has limited time. Months. And there is unfairness to that. I can't be grateful for such limited time left, because it's not enough time. - I will never feel like it's enough time. -  But knowing time is precious, that can be viewed as a gift and one I don't plan on wasting. Other things will wait, time with Grandma won't.

3. So the basement is desperately trying to kick Hero Hottie and me in the ass. Seriously. If you knew us and our record for completing house repair projects. Well, lets say we're really good at having BIG IDEAS and DREAMS and not so good at knowing how to implement the plan. The beginning is easy- the end will look great and somehow we don't know how to travel the journey. So when the basement was destroyed and Hero Hottie decided to take on most of the work himself, I was filled with misgivings. Serious misgivings. But being the supportive wife that I am, and knowing it would look AWESOME if we finished, I jumped in. (That and I have a tendency to dream big too, it's why Hero Hottie and I get along so well.) Plus, we eventually finished our kitchen (over a year) and it was AWESOME. 

     "Honey, we need to think like our old neighbor, "Finish it like P." I said, referring to an old neighbor that seem to finish projects like magic. That guy knew what he was doing and accomplished it, in half the time a normal human being would take. I admired him greatly. 

     He laughed, as he measured the torn apart bathroom. "Okay." 

     Hero Hottie had taken a week off to get ahead of the projects looming downstairs and it was day one.

   And we accomplished...nearly nothing. 

   Why couldn't we be like P? We had gone downstairs with a lot of energy, plans and a gung-ho attitude and every time we turned around something wasn't measuring right, or we didn't have the correct tool, or we didn't know what the next step should be. 

   We should have just hired someone. 

   The next day, I told Hero Hottie again. "We need to approach this like P. If we do that we'll be done by the end of the week." 

   He frowned at me. Yesterday had not gone well and I don't think my cheerleading comments were helping. 

    I started painting, trying to go as quick as I could, which resulted in a bunch of spilled paint- on the floor, on me- drips down the side of the wall. This was stressful trying to be like P. 

   I felt my jaw clenched, as I looked at the time every half an hour, trying to push myself. Spilling more paint.

   Finally, it hit me. 

   What was I doing? 

   I wasn't P. I was me. Which meant, I was not going to succeed at this basement if I kept trying to do things like someone else. And perhaps, Hero Hottie was seeing my comments, which were meant to be encouraging and 'you can do it' as a comparison. And he wasn't P either. 

   If we were going to finish this basement, we would have to do in our own way. Carefully. Perhaps slowly because we were learning as we went, but we could finish it and before our girls moved out. 

    We just had to be ourselves. Or at least better versions of ourselves. 

   The rest of the week went much better. We had the plumber in to fix the shower drain, something we couldn't do. Hero Hottie framed the new shower stall. And with help from my mother in law, we painted until our fingers were numb. 

     Not completed, but we accomplished a lot. So be grateful for yourself, it doesn't mean you can't improve yourself- be a better version of who you are- but don't try to be someone else. It just results in spilled paint and frowns from your honey. 

4. Friends. I can't say enough about great friends. And technology, because right now without technology my great and wonderful friends would seem so far away. But with the magic of floating, invisible bits of info, I can communicate with them in an instant. (Perhaps I'm crazy but has anyone sent a text message and then stared at the air, wondering how your thoughts looked when they were being sent to the next tower of communication? And how many thoughts do we walk through every day?)

How cool is that? Because I'm starting to realize that with faith we're suppose to depend on God, but I think he blessed us with friends to make that journey easier.

Gibson and Blueberry know the value of true friendship

Happy Tuesday to my readers. Now go out and find your gratitude. Because it's somewhere between lessons learned hard and our messy mistakes of human-ness. And it can usually be found hanging out with grace and forgiveness.

When You Don't Even Have Time For Your Life to Flash Before Your Eyes

Or How Many Thoughts Can Actually Occur in the 

Time It Takes for Your Minivan to be Totaled

Gratitude. Yep, that's the emotion I feel when I look at this mangled mess of my minivan. And not just a light dusting of the stuff - of gratitude. No, I feel a deep expansion of it in my chest, pressing on my breath and forcing me to take a deep breath- of gratitude. 

Not for the wrecked vehicle. The amount of problems that has caused me is just one more headache in my life lately, especially when I'm down to half a house still, I'm experiencing a major Crohn's flare-up and my income is wacky.

Being down half a house can be frustrating like the girls are living in the 'dorm room'- which is all their mattresses on the bedroom floor. Half the time they hate it- no privacy, their personal items packed in boxes and stored in the garage, no where to escape from the Baby Blueberry who thinks that sisters should play with her all the time. And forget the state of the mattresses, they seem to think that the mattresses are giant trampolines.  

      But they have gratitude too. They realize that they still have a house. They have heat. A roof over their head. So these things are inconvenient- and frustrating. And Baby Blueberry still hasn't potty trained- it stopped the day she watched the toilet explode with poopy water but it will happen. 

But I don't hear a lot of complaints from them. 

But onto the minivan. 

I was driving Bean to dance. Abu was already at dance and Blueberry was in the back in her car seat. The roads were nasty that night but let me back up a little bit further... 

The night before I had the weirdest dream.  This old woman gave me three silver charm bracelets that had been blessed to protect my girls. I woke up feeling a bit unnerved. What did my girls need protection from? And does a bracelet given in a dream really provide any sort of blessing?

That morning my father-in-law worried about the state of the tires on the van, called and said he was going to take the minivan that night after dance and have snow tires put on it. Since the bald tires weren't working great on ice and snow, I agreed gratefully with his suggestion. But in a few hours, I think bald tires actually worked in our favor...

On the way home from dropping off Abu to dance all I could think about was being in a car accident. My thoughts were getting quite chaotic with what am I going to do tomorrow without a car and I have interviews to get too and kids to drop off to dance. The thoughts of having a car accident were heavy but I assumed it was because the roads were nasty and people were driving stupid. - no, seriously, people if the roads are icy, slow the hell down. But I swear, people really don't understand physics. If that is one subject we need to spend more time on in school- it's physics. Not crazy, abstract, concepts they refer to on The Big Bang Theory physics- but simple laws of motions. 

Back to the story....I told Bean we needed to leave a bit early for dance, I didn't want to be in a hurry. And while I drove I was super aware, trying to avoid the sinking we're-going-to-get-a-car-accident- feeling. 

We stopped at one of the main intersections, in the turning lane, waiting our turn. As we have done a million times before, as we have done since. 

When this oncoming truck decides to run the red and plow into the oncoming car...right in front of us. In less than a second, the pick up truck hits the oncoming car- no breaks applied- ricochets off of them, and hits us head-on in the turning lane. 

There is no time to do anything except realize that we are going to be hit and hopefully it doesn't hurt too much. I let my foot off the brake, I wasn't going to fight against the force of that beast coming at us, and with bare tires, when the pick-up hit us, it slams us back into our seats and we slid about 10 feet back and six feet to the right, luckily into a buffer lane between the turning lane and the other lanes. So we avoid hitting anyone behind us. 

There is nothing like the image of a huge ass truck bumper coming right for your vehicle, aimed towards the passenger side with one of your babies in the passenger seat, knowing it's going to hit and there's nothing you can do. 

NOTHING. There wasn't time to move the vehicle. There wasn't time to throw it in reverse, which wasn't much of an option, because there was cars behind us. 

In less than 2 seconds you just have time to know. To know that events put into place are about to happen and you hope or PRAY that it will all be okay when that 2 seconds is over. 

Abu asked Bean later, "Did your life flash before your lives, like in the movies?" 

Bean answered, "No, there wasn't even time." 

Luckily, when she realized we were going to be hit, she took a deep breath, relaxed and allowed the motion of the crash to move through her. She didn't brace, she didn't tense and all those talks of physics I had with her and car accidents and explaining that sometimes bracing can be the worse thing you can do, actually clicked and she was fine.

The first thing I did was check my girls. Bean was okay. Blueberry was okay. Quiet, not even crying.

 But in a few moments she says from the backseat,  "That was scary. Oh, my God." 

And then after I realized my girls were okay. I was okay. We walked away without even whiplash. And even though I realized too that my minivan was totaled. Front frame bent into the engine, radiator destroyed, bumper damaged, alignment screwy...all I could feel was gratitude. 

My girls were okay. 

The minivan I can replace. I miss my minivan but it's totally, completely 100 percent replaceable. 

My girls were okay though. More than okay, they weren't even hurt. 

So yes, losing our main car has been a pain in the ass. Especially when the other driver didn't have insurance and due to my own dumb ass I only had liability on my van. (When we were first married we could only afford liability on our vehicles and our vehicles weren't worth much. When we got the van, I should have switched it but I didn't even think about it. Lesson learned.)

But if the other driver had insurance, than I would at least be getting a check to help replace my vehicle from their insurance company instead I have to take them to small claims court. Which seems like a waste of time, because if they weren't paying insurance...

But with all that being said...gratitude. 

When my Children Were Little Their Faith was Simple

A Reminder that Faith Can be Simple and Sincere and Sweet

Welcoming the Baby Jesus

This week has been so busy and I so wanted to write about Christmas because I love Christmas. So instead I will repost a sweet blog about Bean and Abu and their innocent faith being put into action with the help of Barbie, Ken, and a few toy animals.

http://justtheothermoment.blogspot.com/2011/12/day-four.html

Adventures in Sewer Back-ups, Ruined Basements, and Insurance Companies

      Sewer Germs are so GROSS-in case I forget to mention that- GROSS

     With most of my friends this year packing up and leaving for exotic places and new adventures, I wanted a grand adventure of my own.

     What I settled for was sorting our stuff and getting rid of clutter so we would be ready to move should the remote possibility arrive and fix up our house in case we needed to sell it in hurry. A girl can be hopeful, right?

     Tuesday I got my wish- just not the way I had envisioned it.

    My fairy godmother sucks.

    Bean was in the shower when the water started raising. She hurried out, hastily putting her clothes on as the water started to come out of the toilet. When she came rushing up the stairs and said the toilet was overflowing, I grabbed the plunger.

      “No, Mom. You don't need that. It's not plugged.” She's trying to explain to me as we rush back downstairs.

     I stop at the bathroom door, shocked by what I'm seeing.

The towels stopped the gushing, which I wished I captured in a photo, but you can see the water still coming out of the toilet and this is towards the end of the 45 minutes.

      Water is like a geyser shooting out of the toilet, with debris of toilet paper and branches and who knows what else, (I don't really want to know). The shower is overflowing, and the floor is already covered in an inch of water and it's quickly flowing into the other parts of the downstairs.

     “Get your Dad.” I holler at her, not sure what to do. This is more than a blocked sewer pipe out to the main sewer line.

Gross

      The next few minutes pass in a hurried blur of shouting at each other as Hero Hottie comes rushing down the stairs and realizes we can't do anything to stop it.

     The older girls and I start to grab things off the floor before the water can reach it and throw them onto top of beds and counter tops, trying to save as much as we can. From the photos you can see we couldn't save everything.

     And for 45 minutes we watched as water kept pumping into our house, ruining half our house.            

      Destroying the girls' bedrooms, the downstairs bathroom, the living room. Inches and inches of sewer water flowed everywhere.

     The cause: The construction company up the street had busted a water main, causing sewer to back up into six different homes on the blocks. Our house was hit the worse. But all the houses would need new flooring.

     We sent the girls' over to Grandma's so they could clean up and get the sewer water off their bodies. The upstairs was contaminated by our footsteps.

     My house was a bio hazard.

What's this brown stuff?

     Gross. Totally gross and just a little – no, completely gross.

     Sewer water. People's poo. Covering my girls' bed. My couch. My Blueberry's toys. I wanted to cry. And scream.

    Hero Hottie was upset. He marched down the street, still in bare feet because he didn't want to put sewer water covered feet in his shoes and started demanding answers.

   Mostly who is fixing this and they better start right now.

   Hero Hottie and I are pretty easy going people. Except when a company pumps sewer water into our home for 45 minutes and RUINS our house. Then we're a little bit more demanding.

   Which was a good thing. Because within a couple of hours, the construction company had professional cleaners, Stanley Steemers, at the house, decontaminating the floor so we could safety walk through and grab our personal items that were savable.

Clothes, baby potty, Abu's retainer and waterpik all totally gross and ruined

   

Blueberry's toys completely ruined. You can't clean those toys enough. Not for this Momma.

Who wants toast?

Sorry Gibson, it got your dog food too.

    In the last few days, the company has taken the flooring out of Abu's room, ran 13 giants fans to dry the sheet rock, tore out most of the bathroom, and spray all kinds of germ killing chemicals into cracks and around edges of walls.

   Bean and I have spent the last four days, not doing schoolwork as planned, but sorting through the damaged items, making an inventory with photos, and then finding the replacement price of the item on the Internet. That way they can see how much damage they did, at least the monetary side of it.

   They can't replace the sack of letters I had from loved ones who have already moved on, and they can't replace the box of teenage memories, the photos that Bean looked at and said, “Wow, Mom you were pretty when you were a teenager.”

   “Thanks.” I said sarcastically.

   “No, I just meant...you're pretty now too. It's just, you didn't have wrinkles.”

   “Just stop talking.” I said. 

It's just stuff. But it was the stuff I used to take care of my family.

These are the things that can't be replaced.

And you want to know the irony of this? We are in the process of fixing up our upstairs shower, so this was our only working shower. Guess what kids? We're all taking showers in the kitchen sink. Or with the garden hoses out back. It's only a little cold outside this time of year. Brrr.

These giants fans, 13 of them, run for 72 hours to help dry everything. There is a constant hum upstairs and the cove heaters are turned up to 90 to heat things up. The smell upstairs is stomach turning. Damp, and hot and coying.

    They can't replace the container of dance costumes I had been keeping from all the girls' dance recitals since they were five and tiny and just my little girls. And they can't replace a Blue Blankie that was Abu's security blanket, especially when I was sick. She carried that thing everywhere, quietly watching me, wondering if Momma was ever going to get better.

    The couch, the beds, even the toys are replaceable. We won't get new price for it, but as long as we get enough, Hero Hottie and I can rebuild the downstairs and give the girls' their rooms back.

    But in the meantime, my mother-in-law is kindly doing all our laundry since my washer and dryer is off limits until they have been decontaminated. We have been staying at my in-laws' house too, until we can buy another mattress and set up three girls in the tiniest room in our house.

    

     A teenager and a toddler in one room. What could go wrong?

   When Blueberry finally saw our house, her bottom lip quivers, her eyes filling with moisture and she whispers. “House broken.”

     Yes, little sweetie, our house is broken.

     So in a way I have been granted my wish. We packed up part of our house and MOVED it to the garage. And we're redoing our entire downstairs. And I'm having a grand adventure of the character building sort.

     Blah, character building adventures are for literary novels. I wanted sun, sand and fun. I swear, one of these days, I just going to move to New Zealand. Their website says they're the happiest place on the Earth. I'm assuming after Disneyland, of course. 

Some beach in New Zealand, works for me- I'm not picky

  

Homeschooling by the Seat of my Pants

Farmer's Markets, Social Skills, and Old-fashioned Math

Always chasing sisters.

      It's probably not a good idea that Blueberry has put all my drying hot peppers in her sippy cup. Somehow I don't think spicy water is appropriate for babies, even Blueberry who likes hot sauce and curry. I had the peppers up high, but I turn around and she has climbed on top of the stool all by herself and is very busy exploring her new world called the 'counter top'. Luckily, she hadn't drank the water.

      Blueberry has increased the size of her world map lately, with gaining the ability to escape her crib, climb onto sisters' beds, and being able to reach up and pull things from the counters.

      It is a busy time- this time of the Tremendous and Terrific Two's. The world of a two year old is a world of newness, and excitement. Things are like magic. Water comes from the sink. The lights turn off and on. Sisters have the best things. And Mommies always have the best hugs.

     Oh, and Frozen songs are the only approved songs to play while driving.

     One day, when the kids are all grown and highly successful, I will be asked to write a book on my method of homeschooling and I will be unable to offer any constructive advice because I will have to say:

   

      I just winged it.

     Naw, that's not completely true. There is actually a plan to the ways I'm doing things but it's not rigid.

     It's structured. And I have clearly defined goals written down for us to reach.

     But I don't have a chart with gold stars and I don't have ribbons for participating.

     I don't have massive amounts of tests and quizzes.

Instead, I have experiences to give them. Questions to make them think. Books, and National Geographics to read.

      And the other day I had the Farmer's Market. It was too nice of a day to learn inside, so we took the classroom outside, because that is one of the greatest thing about homeschooling- the flexibility.

      Our Farmer's Market consist of a row of white tents, lined against the parking lot of one of our city parks. There are fruits- melons, apples, and peaches. There are veggies of many kinds- heirlooms and oddities, white cucumbers to catch people's attentions, and black cherry tomatoes that appear at first to be rotting, but are sweet and low acidity. And skinny eggplants that don't look like the fat and sassy eggplants in the store.

        The girls tried slices of peaches, so fuzzy and sweet, the juice dipping down their chins. And Blueberry smelled the herbs.

       We decided that for our lesson that day, Bean was going to make a salsa and Abu was going to try her hand at pickles.

      We went to the pepper guy, who I had interviewed for a newspaper article, which means I should have known better because he had given me samples to try and his idea of hot is vastly different than my idea of hot.

      But we were discussing sweet peppers and so when he offered Abu a bite of pepper, I didn't stop her from trying it.

     Her eyes start to water and her cheeks flushed. I thought she was going to start crying.

      It wasn't a sweet pepper.

     He offered her a fuzzy yellow cherry tomato, which she ate out of desperation because she doesn't like tomatoes but her mouth was on fire.

    Luckily it helped.

I felt bad. I had not taken them to the Farmer's Market to burn their tongues.

     While I worried about Abu, Bean searched the containers of peppers, picking ones by how hot they smelled.

     Blueberry wanted to help search and she couldn't understand why I wouldn't let her coat her little fingers in volatile pepper juice.

    We found pickling cucumbers, and squashes.

     And left, forgetting that we needed tomatoes for the salsa and dill for the pickles.

    After running an errand, we swung back around to the market and I made Bean get out and purchase the tomatoes and dill on her own. I watched from the car as she had to convey what she needed. A conversation happened between her and the young lady running the booth.

Social skills for the day. Checked.

This homeschooling stuff was getting easy.

We went home and spent the morning making salsa and pickles. 

   And then we worked on math, without – wait for it because Bean still couldn't believe I would make her do long division without it – a calculator.

I'm such a mean mom, expecting my child to perform math without an electronic device.

But I just tell them it's good for building pathways in the brain.

They just roll their eyes and ask if we can go to the Farmer's Market again.

She might not be the most articulate person in the room but when she is- it's because she blogged.

Or how referring to one self's in the third person either makes you 

look crazy or super cool.

 

         The ball of fire was lodged in my throat- not a real fire mind you, with my history of clumsy- should I take up knife throwing or fire eating- I would probably be mortally injured. But anyway, back to my tale...

          The ball of fire was lodged in my throat, settled against my vocal cords and I couldn't speak. My chest was tight, like a vise...no, too cliché... like a boa was slowly wrapping around me, squeezing tighter with every breath I took.

I've definitely been watching too many episodes of 'Naked and Afraid.' For people that hate snakes, this is probably not your type of show.

        My anger was thick like molasses. Umm, this is why I shouldn't write in metaphors. Does anyone ever cook with molasses anymore? My grandparents had a bottle of it in their cupboard, it was like over twenty years old. They never used it but they insisted it was still safe to eat.

        So lets try this again....my anger was thick like when you're on Facebook and the news feed won't load. How am I suppose to stay updated with everyone's coffee drinks and meals out if I can't see their pictures? Or worst yet, I might miss a funny cat video!!!

       (Disclaimer: I actually enjoy connecting with family and since I have a big interest in food, seeing what people are eating or cooking does not bother me. When my family or friends go on vacation, I will beg them for details about every meal they ate. They get annoyed, I just want to know if the butter had fresh garlic in it.)

      (Second disclaimer: I love funny cat videos. Or puppies video. I always have been enjoying YouTube channels, List 25 and Danger Dorian. I've learned the craziest things watching their videos. Check it out.)

     So where was I...It was a dark and stormy night... No, no, no. That's not right. It was a bright and sunny day and I was rolling my eyes because it was better than the harsh and unforgiving words heavy on my tongue.

      Of course, rolling one's eyes is probably not the best method of communication a grown woman in her thirties can use. But in this case it was the most respectful thing I had to say to this person. (And no, we're not talking about Hero Hottie. With his new work schedule we don't even get to see each other at this point, but that's another story.)

      So where does this blog leave us, my loyal readers? I won't go into details of the situation because it would be disrespectful of me. And maybe just a little passive aggressive. But the incident did remind me that it's hard for me to communicate when I'm upset.

       That's how I ended up swallowing fire instead of standing my ground. But out of respect for where the situation happened I wasn't going to unleash like a dragon blowing fire either. Mmm, I like that metaphor.

      I think everyone in the world can agree that communication is one of the hardest skills to learn, to use, to apply, yet if you think about it, it is the foundation of our entire lives.

      If we don't learn to communicate our feelings, than we turn around and blog about it.

      But communication is difficult, just ask Blueberry who is in the stage of throwing herself on the floor, belly down, performing the typical stereotype tantrum as if she read it in a baby manual.

-How to Perform the Perfect Tantrum-

Step #1: Always wait until Mommy is tired and in the middle of the store. Preferably, near the candy aisle.

Step #2: Gently placed yourself on the ground and start kicking your legs and pounding your fists.

Step #3: Scream. Look up, make sure Mommy is watching. Should you make eye contact with her, continue with the tantrum. Should Mommy be ignoring you, than give it one more good scream but realize Mommy might just keep ignoring you.

Step #4: It only has to work once, after that Mommy will be ready to hand you some candy as soon as you look like you're going to scream.

But onto a slightly more serious note.

The best advice I can give doesn't come from me, but I'm sure this lovely woman won't mind me sharing. –-After all, she wanted Bean and Abu to fully take these words to heart. --

Do not let the small-mindedness of people hold you back. Do not allow their insecurities to ruin your sense of self worth. Because in the big picture, the world is a wonderful place full of things to learn, people that will like you for who you are, and things to experience.

If you allow small-minded attitudes to hold you back, you won't go exploring. You won't live.

And she also said, give something back. Find a way, because not everyone has the same way of showing kindness, and give back.

Heck, I could use that advice. It's taken me too long, probably because I have a touch of people-pleaser in me, to realize that there are people that like to dwell in the miserable, and they will drag you down to the murky depths with them.

To those people I say: for the words I should have spoken, no longer need said, I have found my sense of self and it is not in your hate.

 

Baby Blueberry Turns Two

            Navigating Life Or Did I Ever Tell You About My Mad Map Skills

I Can Do It Myself

        Why is it the thing we want them to do so badly is the thing that breaks our heart? I want my children to be independent. Strong. Kind.

(Although I did not see that yesterday in Bean's and Abu's behavior with each other. Which lead me to ignoring them for an entire afternoon, which was followed by them trying to make dinner, watching the Baby so I could have a break(which translates into a sulk while I contemplated why I had kids), and wait for it...being super nice to each other.)

        But back to my sappy blog about how I'll miss them when they're independent, even while I'm super mad at them for being mean to each other. Only in parenthood can we feel a dozen different emotions about our children -SIMULTANEOUSLY.

Mmm, that's not right. Relationships. It's in relationships that we can feel more than one emotion at a time. So preschool really screws a person up. Because the teachers holds up a card that depicts SAD, MAD, HAPPY, or CONFUSED and tells the child that when they have that face on, that is the emotion they are experiencing.

The teachers don't pull out the cards where it shows you can experience sad and happy at the same time. Or mad and love. Or confused and every other emotion with it. No one explains that you can experience happy for someone with envy. Or intense love for your spouse at the same time you're volcanically mad over some situation. (Usually involving one of three things: money, parenting styles, or stealing the covers. I'm starting to think people should give HIS/HER comforters as wedding presents.)

So parenthood involves having your heart experience sweeping waves of being proud of your kid for doing normal everyday things such as eating with a fork or walking - at the same time you're sure they will grow up, move out and never come to visit.

Which BTW- we had to tell the teenager, Bean, good job with eating with a fork the other night. She couldn't understand why we were praising the Baby for EATING. She wrinkled her nose at us and laughed. Point taken and she joined in telling Baby Blueberry what a big girl she was for using a fork and not throwing all her food on the floor.


But anyway, we want our children  ready to navigate the world and follow their dreams. Even though we start to miss them with every little step they take towards that goal.
 
  And it starts so young. Before they start to walk but you can really see it when they finally figure out the sweet success of putting one foot in front of the other. A task we take for granted, but one that took each and every one of us many times of falling down and trying again.

 
    Baby Blueberry took quite a while to walk. Crawling was her mode of transportation. She was speedy too. She could crawl faster than most other babies could walk. And so she didn't learn to walk until after her first birthday.
   Why? It was slow and torturous. Falling down. Bumping. It took forever to wobble over to the object she wanted, whereas with crawling she could reach her destination in no time at all.
   Why change the status quo? She was perfectly happy without walking.

   And then, one day, it finally occurred to her. Heck yes, walking was faster.

  She hasn't slowed down since.  So even though every baby moment I knew we would have, I tried to savor because I knew from past experience it would move oh, so fast, -it still flew by and now my Baby is a toddler.

   My oldest is a teenager and my Abu is starting to show signs of being a teenager. (hint: drama, mood swings, and demanding more independence)

  One time, long ago, Hero Hottie and I drove down to Texas. I was navigating, thinking that my map reading skills were so awesome. I managed some of the other smaller states pretty well, until I told Hero Hottie we had about three hours in Texas to reach our stop for the night.

  Three hours later and we still have a whole lotta of Texas to drive through. Hero Hottie pulls over, an impatient Baby Bean in the back, and studies the map.
   He starts laughing.
   At me.
   I had misread the scale to measure miles, which had changed since Texas is so much bigger than the other states. My inch of Texas included so many more miles than my inch of the other states.

   He pats my knees, trying to be encouraging and avoid a fight.
   I haven't lived it down but my map reading skills have gotten better since that trip.

   But sometimes I think life is like that. I'm always using the wrong scale to determine the length of my journey.

    So somewhere this blog entry is about the confusion that is life. How super excited I am that it is Baby Blueberry's 2nd birthday tomorrow and how melancholy it is making me feel.

  
   But mostly this blog entry is about how fast life moves, especially after they learn to walk. Because then it's all about chasing them until they move out.
  
   And teaching them map reading skills.

   Oh, and that Texas is a huge state.

Finding Patience in a Puddle of Paint

Baby Blueberry's Painted Toes

      Sometimes I think my job title should be 'Director of Messes' or 'CEO of the Mess Department'- It does seem like you can follow the rhythm of my day by the messes that occur.
      Breakfast- laundry- Gibson coming in without getting his paws wiped first- toys and more toys. And lets not forget the stack of DVDs that Baby Blueberry loves to take out of the cupboard and leave in piles around the living room.
      There are school books that seem to take over my dining room table from homeschooling Bean.
      Then there are the little pile of crumbs that linger under cupboards after meals.

       These are all annoyances. And lately more than I can handle. I think winter has been a bit too long for me this year. Chaos is running as Your Royal Highness Pain in the Ass in my household which is causing rebellion stirrings in my soul and a constant revolution to be spinning in my head. I was hoping to make a trip to the ocean this summer to calm the angry emotions but have found out that there is no way that can happen this year- so it is what it is - I'm just not sure what 'it' is anymore.

       Lost. Yeah, I'm feeling lost. Perhaps it's not enough sleep. If there is one thing Baby Blueberry is extremely good at- not sleeping. Even caffeine has lost it's umph to fuel my engines. I'm just drained.

    But back to the partial pic above. In the whole picture, Baby Blueberry and I are standing over the mess and I'm smiling. How can I be so happy with such a mess, you might ask?
    I wasn't. I wasn't happy one little bit. I'm so OVERWHELMED that I'm about ready to sell everything I own and live without stuff. Because stuff seems to take time to clean and organize and keep nice.

    But I'm smiling anyways. Because the mess was about more than a mess. (Which BTW took over an hour to clean up.) It was a chance at a little bit of redemption.

   When I was sick, so many years ago, I tried to be a good Mom. We read books, and played toys, and I tucked them in at night with snuggles and hugs.
    But I was also very impatient and angry.
   Especially with messes.
    Because a mess meant more work. More energy. More time I didn't have.
    And so when Bean and Abu painted my kitchen blue because they thought I would like it- I was very angry about it. I asked them, 'how could you do this?' "'How could you make a mess for Mom?' And their little faces fell and something went hard in Bean and something went quiet in Abu.
     Impatience. Impatience. Impatience. When Bean and Abu were little it was what I seemed to give them the most.
     And they responded in kind.
    With impatience for me. With each other.

     And it's hard to enjoy each other's company when all you feel is impatience.

    Then Baby Blueberry starting growing underneath my heart. But that wasn't what changed me.
 
     Two things...two random conversations that probably took up less than five minutes of time but shifted the view- my view.

    I was watching a friend with her toddler and he spilled some water on his coloring book. She wasn't happy about it, but she calmly helped him clean it up and they continued on with the activity. No impatience. And he learned just as much about being careful and not making a mess than my kids did with all my impatience and muttering under my breath and frustration.

    Second: I was talking with someone who had experienced a later in life baby too. This baby had came along right when they had decided to stop trying. When she had decided she was done with babies. Something I was feeling a lot of when I found out about Blueberry. Especially with a 11 and 9 year difference between Bean, Abu and Blueberry.
    But at that moment I realized I could shape the story- the story Blueberry would hear her entire life- how Mom was impatient right from the start because she made a mess in Mommy's life. Or I could write the story- my story- her story- OUR STORY- to celebrate her arrival.
      At that moment I decided I was done- as much as any Mommy can be- I'm not a saint- but I decided to give up impatience.

     I tried it with Bean and Abu. Teaching myself to handle spills and accidents with patience. That was DIFFICULT!!! But the difference in them started right away. They were less tense, and just as careful.

     And when Baby Blueberry arrived. I continued teaching myself to be less impatient.

   So when I tried to paint my basement posts with Baby in tow, I should have realized that she would brush up against the fresh paint with her pretty sweater. She doesn't understand wet paint. I took the sweater off her to run it under some water and soap and try to save it. I turned my back for less than thirty seconds.
    I turn around and she has taken my paint brush and is HAPPILY slapping layers of thick paint on the post. Dripping it across the floor in huge puddles. It's covering her pants and her shirt. I quickly grab her because she's now standing in wet paint on a cement floor and I don't want her cracking her head open. And when I grab her, - her little toes start sliding in the paint and she's starts laughing at the sensation of wet paint in between toes. And then she starts kicking her feet in the puddle, enjoying the squishy mess- huge belly laughs fill the air.
   Her sisters come over and start laughing. Baby Blueberry's dimple is showing and her eyes are sparkling. And we're covered in paint and mess.
    At that point I realize I could get mad but she's talking to me and I realize she's saying, "help Momma. help Momma."
    She was just trying to help me paint and it probably looked like so much fun.
   I could cry because the mess is huge.
   Or I could laugh.

   And because it seemed like the best option- I laugh right along side her and her sisters. I have Abu grab the camera and snap a shot. Then I haul Blueberry to the bath and clean her up. Abu tries to help clean by laying down toilet paper on the mess but it actually makes it worse because by the time I can start cleaning- it has stuck to the drying paint.
    I'm tired and almost crabby by the time I get it cleaned up because it's late and it takes so long but impatience- that emotion isn't hanging around us- and I tuck three happy kids into bed...two older sisters still grinning over the mess the Baby made.
      And one little kiddo who was happy that she helped Momma. 

    The moral of the story: if you see me being patient.- know that I'm really working very hard on it underneath my calm exterior. It has taken me a lot of work to get there but I do know I like my parenting style better if IMPATIENCE stays away.

    That and keep the paint can up on the counter while painting. ;-)
   

Puppy Has Nine Lives...umm- Eight Lives Left

   Gibson has a postal worker thing. Not the usual doggie thing- where the canine wants to rip the nice- I'm just delivering your mail to your mailbox- worker to shreds.
    No, Gibson has friendship. Because he's one of the most social dogs I have ever seen. The girls and I always tease him that he has a motto-

    "Stalking 'til we're friends"

   This started at the dog park because when he would see another dog, he goes into crouch mode, like he's a big, wild beast of Africa, sneaking up on the unsuspecting herbivore. The looks we have gotten from other dog owners, as they notice this huge Great Dane/Black Lab 'puppy' trying to quietly sneak up on their small, toaster box size pet has been hilarious- if perhaps they didn't pick up their dogs and start running away from us.
    Then I start to feel bad that my extremely friendly lap dog has scared away yet another dog owner. And they simply do not believe me when I try to convince them that stalking is Gibson's way of making friends.

    But lets not talk about Gibson's troubles with social graces- we're here to discuss his other troubles:

   Gibson is a runner. We open the door and he tries to escape. We have now resorted to forming plays of action that we have to perform when we open the door. Sorta of like football- "Bean, here's the baby. Abu, grab the diaper bag. I'll throw the toy, when the dog intercepts it, make a run for the door before he crosses the living room."
    Or sometimes it's a full tackle. "Girls, grab the baby. I'll tackle the dog and hold him down while you get out the door."

    One day he made an escape and ran right for the pretty, blond mail lady. She realized that he wasn't the big, scary beast that most people think he is and recognized him for the overgrown puppy that he really is. She gave him puppy treats until I could run down the block and get him.
    And since then, it's been love at first doggie treat. Now, he watches out the window for her and when she passes, he doesn't bark like he normally would, he whines in this pitiful, gargle in the back of the throat.

   Last week, he rushes pass me as I check the mail. He thinks he sees her and runs right for the postal worker. Except it's not her. It's some guy he doesn't know. So he decides to run around the neighborhood, because for a huge oaf, being stuck in the house while it's in the negative temperatures is enough to drive one insane. And since he's free- he's going to take advantage of it.
    I go outside, not chasing him - because that actually makes him run worse. The best method is to IGNORE him- because then he runs back to me- wondering why I'm not playing chase.
    We end up in the backyard- I almost have him and then he decides to chase a car driving down the alley. The car is going somewhere between 10-15 miles an hour and he is so easily out running the vehicle.
     I'm afraid he's going to get to hit when he makes the stupid decision to turn and run towards the busy road. Then I start running but I can't outrun him and by the time I make the corner to the busy road, I notice ALL of the cars in four lanes of traffic are stopped and he's limping back to me.
    My chest tightens, the fear curling my gut and I hurry over to him and he's looking at me like a little kid would, 'I hurt Mommy and make it all better.'

   I coax him down the alley to my parent's house and holler for my Dad. Around this time a vehicle that had been stopped on the road comes driving slowly down the alley.
   "I saw what happened. He came out of nowhere. The truck tried to stop but he couldn't. I don't know how bad he got hit but he rolled under the truck a few times and then came out the side."
    I thank her for taking the time to stop, especially since the person that actually hit my dog never even took the time to see if the puppy was okay.
    My Dad feels all his bones, checking for broken ribs and legs and hips. He pokes and checks for tender spots on his belly and his torso. Gibson's tail is bleeding, road rash all up and down the sides of it. Missing chunks of fur and skin. The tail is swollen but it's not bent at odd angles or crushed.
     Gibson is crying. His eyes full of moisture and he's presses his forehead up against me. I cry with him.

     I take him back to my house, he slowly comes along, obviously sore but he's able to walk without yelping or whining.
     I make him comfortable and clean up his wounds. I don't rush him to the vet, not because of any lack of caring, because for all the headache he can be- I wouldn't let him suffer in any way- (I do happen to like my pain in the neck puppy)- I have nothing financially right now. It would be using my kids' food money to take him to the vet. So, since his doesn't have any broken bones or signs of  head trauma- we tend to him at home. We keep a careful eye on him, checking his urine and poop for blood. Checking for signs of head injury all night long. Checking to make sure the wounds on his tail start to heal quickly and there isn't a lack of circulation going on or broken tail bones.

   In the photo above you can see the tail and he's obviously sore and stiff. He doesn't even want to chew on his shoe, which is a great treat for him because to him there's nothing better than someone's sweaty, smelly running shoe. 

  Over the next thirty hours we baby him and coddle him. He eats it up, sitting on our laps and getting the chance to be the lap dog he knows he is underneath all that puppy body.
   We keep cleaning his tail and it scabs quickly. The potty stuff is going fine. Slowly he starts moving more, jumping over the baby gate, getting on the furniture.

    The house is quiet. There isn't a puppy trying to escape every time we open the door. He's not trying to eat the baby's toys and he's not attempting to eat Bean's boots every time she puts them on her feet.
    Hero Hottie asks, "What's wrong with you, man? You look like you've been hit by a truck." And that's his sarcastic way of dealing with it.- As he pets Gibson behind the ears and actually shares fried ham from his dinner plate with him.

   Just thirty hours after he is hit by a truck, rolled under the vehicle and managed to come out not only alive but without any serious injuries- he sneaks into the Baby's room and comes running out with a toy. And the chase is back on...
    "Gibson!"