Lois Lane Drives a Minivan

Do you wanna play with me? 

     I have a confession to make: While I write this blog, Baby Blueberry is munching cold left-overs for breakfast, the weeds are starting to take over my front yard, and in two weeks I have to start homeschooling two children- who will never be the poster children for the perfectly agreeable homeschooled child who doesn't argue when it's time to do math.
     In the meantime I have two articles due and I just released my first fictional book on Amazon.com. Yay!! (More on that next time, with links. Because if any of my readers love romance stories, than I will be begging them to purchase a copy and if they like it, to write a review on Amazon for me. If you want and be so inclined. Just a small flavor to start getting the word out. )

      This summer has not turned out the way I hoped, which I had some inkling of when it started, there was a general feeling in the breeze, in the chilly wind that has not warmed up yet and continued to stay on the cool side right into August. Even this day started with a fog weaving through the leaves of the trees, a cloud mist sinking to the ground.

    A fog is fitting for the state of my mind.- dealing with confusion and a general sense of being overwhelmed. I can kinda feel the warmth of the sun through it, and I know eventually it will burn off- this sense of lostness- but in the meantime...
   It's starts like this: Yes, I agree that putting Abu through orthodontic work would be considered a 'first world problem' Blah. - And I AM NO LESS GRATEFUL that Hero Hottie and I can scrimp and save and somehow magically pull money together to pay for this. We are gladly giving up dinners outs, new clothes, work around the house, trips, etc. to make sure she has a healthy mouth, a painless smile and bite.
     This does not mean that I am not overwhelmed with the amount of money I owe on this or the juggling to my finances it takes to pay the 'car payment' size bill every month.
    I know financial experts say money is just a tool but when I pick up a hammer my stomach doesn't tightened into a knot. My thumb might try to hide but that because I have a tendency to not hit things on the head. - I look at my bank statement and my Crohn's threatens to kill me. Hasn't been a great month for the whole gut and emotion connection theories that I can attest to as probably being fact.

     I think someone can be grateful for something and still be overwhelmed by the sheer size of it. So when I complain about how much this is costing, I'm not any less full of gratitude- I just know every time I pay the orthodontist it's the same as taking a loaded cannon and aiming it at my bank account.    
    And I know myself enough to realize I will continue to stress about it until it's paid.
   
    I also realized a few other things this summer.

First:
   If the truth can set a man free- it does not restore things to their previous order. A man will still have to claw, as if in a fight and struggle for survival, against the dark lies that put him in a position to have to defend himself in the first place. Truth may shine brightly, but it does not give a man back his position in the community, his livelihood, his honor.
    The truth ends one battle- which is proving that the lies are nothing but that- and sets a man on another path- which is regaining what he has lost.
   I guess I had a fairytale version of truth, which was once truth won- everything was bright and shiny again. I was wrong.
  
   But the other thing I realized: truth gives you back your soul and that has value of immeasurable worth. 

Second:
    That life is an endless, sloppy mess of joy and grief- all mixed together. And there isn't any balance. Sometimes you will have more joy than grief and other times you will definitely experience more grief than joy.

Grief:
Currently my parents are having to relocate. The rental house they are living in is up for sale by the landlord. I'm not sure if the realtor knows this is just a desperate attempt on his part to sale the house before the banks takes it- but I don't think it matters. My parents have to find somewhere else to live and it's not going great.

And I had two wonderful friends move this summer, far, far away. So missing people always make me a little sad.

Another friendship is drifting and I don't understand drift. I always moved before any of my relationships could enter that weird zone of being someone I used to know.

But joy is always present in my life and these are the moments that help me deal with this strange existence called being human.

Joy:
Watching my children grow. And lately with the world in such burning chaos, I have made the hugs a little longer, the listening to their stories more attentive, just spending more time with them. Grateful to have them in my life. Grateful that they are safe, and have full bellies, and shoes on their feet.

Gibson. He drives me nuts but he is also a character who we took to the dog park and now he knows where heaven is. - It's at the dog park where they have that creek and all the dogs play together. Life is so good there.

Pretending to be Lois Lane as I drive to interviews in my minivan, hoping that the nose wipe on my shoulder that the Baby just sent me off with will dry by the time I arrive. Hoping that I can find a blank sheet of paper in my notebook when I open it up and realize someone else had used it for their drawings. Trying to keep my mind focused on my questions and the interviewees' answers as I also fall into mommy mode and plan dinner and wonder what is causing Baby Blueberry's diaper rash. 


Next time I will talk about my new book, The Cowboy's Sexy Songbird.

In the meantime:  the dog park is apparently heaven. And running through a creek, chasing each other for a stick is the answer to finding happiness.

   

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!"

Gibson Ate Santa

      If you don't receive any presents from Santa this year- it's probably Gibson's fault. The photo evidence is clear- Santa's hat in the mouth of  a puppy that chews everything.

       I'm pretty sure I saw a jolly happy fellow running for his life as Gibson chased down the reindeer.
    
        Yep, I doubt Santa will be delivering in my neighborhood ever again. Sorry children. It was the puppy.
    
        Gibson probably just wanted to be friends with the reindeer and he probably only wanted Santa to pet him and let him sit on his lap because no matter how big this dog grows, he literally thinks he's a lap dog and will smother you with affection. Or he's trying to prevent you from getting up, I'm not sure which yet.
     But I know for sure what Gibson wanted from Santa's sleigh....the toys. He loves toys. He chews them and tears them apart and sometimes when he eats too many of them he pukes them back up too.
   
     Today he has chewed and ate three jumbo crayons, the handle to my hairbrush, mini candy canes, and two gardening gloves- unfortunately not two gloves of the same pair, but two gloves from two different pairs, making both of them unusable.

   I saw this photo posted to Facebook and had to share it. My problem with dealing with Gibson is because I'm not thinking like a puppy. Like duh!
   

    So see, he wasn't trying to be mean to Santa. He was protecting us. Just like he barks at the squirrels that run around in the pine tree right above his leash and torment him. But if he stopped barking those murderous squirrels would surely descend from the trees, invade our house and eat us all alive. Gibson knows this.
    So he keeps barking...everyday...all the time...because he's saving us. 

    Wow, I should appreciate him more.

     Same reason he barks at the neighbors...they're obviously murderous. And the postman...and all of the girls' friends...

     But I have to say the puppy and Baby Blueberry work well together. The other night, I turn around and she's dipping a calculator in the Christmas tree water.
    Dip. Dunk. Dip. Shake it out. Dunk it some more...all of it.
    I sighed and shook my head. Who needs a calculator? 
    We left for a couple of hours and when we returned there was electronic parts scattered around the room.
   A circuit board. Rubber numbers. Wires.
   The front of the destroyed calculator.
   I had to laugh at that one. At least he had chewed apart something that had already been completely destroyed by the Baby just a few hours before.
   They're such a great team.

   So we finally got our tree decorated. It's only decorated from the top up. It's naked from the top down. We knew between the human baby and the canine baby we would lose ornaments by the dozen if we put them too close to small fingers and sharp teeth.

     I also set up the Nativity way up high and the rest of the house is sadly lacking any Christmas decorations. Why risk it, all that shiny stuff surely looks delicious! ---for Baby Blueberry and Gibson.

    We bought Gibson a huge ham bone and training treats for Christmas, but we had thought about getting him a new home.
       Gibson doesn't know it yet but he has New Years Resolutions. Like no chewing, no biting, no jumping, better listening, no chasing Santa, and oh, just behaving in general.
       
       Perhaps Santa will drop off a dog trainer!
   

Call Me -Gibson the Destroyer

         Adversaries. I stood, not even breathing, just inside the door. Gibson stood on the cement porch, not a muscle twitching. He stared at me with his big, brown puppy dog eyes but it wasn't a look of innocence or playfulness in their depths.
          This was a dog with a mission, an idea, a purpose going through his head and every thought was reflected in his eyes.
          Slow and silent breath. I didn't dare twitch.
          He continued to stare at me.
          I had just unhooked him from his chain and he was supposed to walk into the door with me. Instead, he stood there.
           Outside.
           He was outside where the smells, the thought of freedom, the ability to run as fast and as far as he could was all there for him.
         
           Damn, I really needed to get that fence installed.
          
         "Come on, Gibbs. Come in. Puppy treat." I cooed at him. Coaxing him.
          His eyes light up but not for puppy treats.
          Checkmate.
          He's gone in about three seconds. Down the steps, across the sidewalk and into the wide world. 

         I watch him channel his inner gazelle as he's in my next door neighbor's yard in about two second. From there he decides to cross the street and he's about to jump the retaining wall into the next neighbor's yard when...
        The thud of him hitting the wall, face first, echoes throughout the entire neighborhood. He stumbles back, looks like he's going to shake it off, takes two steps and then wobbles back and forth.
        And continues to wobble long enough for me to run over to him and hook his leash on his collar.

       He doesn't fight me as we walk back to the house and that's when I notice I have blood smeared across my pants.
       "Gibson." I kneel down, eye level with a puppy that looks dazed and confused. Blood is dripping from his chin and onto the sidewalk. He has split his lip. Almost deep enough for stitches.
         Apparently the retaining wall won that match of Puppy Loves to Escape.

        He stumbles into the house and my heart sinks. I wonder just how much damaged the puppy has done to his brain with his latest antics. I'm not looking forward to telling the girls the puppy died by missing a jump.
      He sits down next to Hero Hottie, his little shoulders hunched and stiff. Clearly, everything hurts.
 
      The earlier frustration I felt when he ran off dissipates with my reluctant compassion for him. Even though this is probably episode number ten or twenty of Puppy on the Run, a show I would love to have cancelled- he is just a puppy with an owie.
      I kneel down, scratching behind his ears. I'm sure he hasn't learned anything from his adventure. But for this moment, it's about comfort.


    A few hours later he's fine. The downstairs trash spread across the floor proves it. And the tore up hose in the backyard...only a foot of it hangs from the spigot tells me that he didn't suffer any permanent brain injury. He was also generous to leave enough so that I can at least water the sunflower by the backdoor.
    The couch cushions have once again been tossed off the couch like beanbags and now that the girls are home from school there is an air of screaming, shouting, and reprimanding as he attempts to chew their shoes while they're still WEARING them and nibble on their homework.
   Abu just knows that one day she will have to tell her teacher that her DOG really did eat her homework.

     I know he's only trying to help me with my goal to declutter my life by chewing up useless things we don't need, such as X-Box controllers, shoes, toys, and furniture.
   
      I realize that it's so much fun to be outside, and why does he have to wait on me to do it.
   
     I know he doesn't realize I gave him a new name, No, no. I'm going to get rid of you. 

     He's a puppy. A busy, chewy, can't sit still nor behave puppy.
    
     My advice for anyone wanting to adopt a puppy...skip the puppy, get a dog.
    A mellow one.
    Or you can borrow mine. He would love to visit. Just hide your shoes. And your valuables. And your trash. Oh, and don't forget- hide anything that can be destroyed by teeth.
    But otherwise, they are so cute and cuddly.