Goodbye to a good dog

May 1 was a rough day. Well, the rough day technically started on April 29 (which happens to be mom's birthday). Maddie - my Australian Cattle Dog and best friend for 13 years - stopped eating. She'd sort of lost her appetite several days before, but now she even refused treats, peanut butter, and yogurt. I knew it was not going to end well. I made an appointment for Monday afternoon and hoped she'd snap out of it over the weekend.  My hopes were crushed on Sunday night when her back legs gave out and she refused to even try to get up. I once had a friend who joked that if Maddie were a soldier, she'd be the psycho pup continuing on the front lines with shrapnel in her nose. That was the Maddie I knew and loved; not this poor, limp angel lying in my arms. She would have never admitted defeat willingly.

I guess the purpose behind my journaling this is not to relive the pain, but to have a place to remember how raw and wounded I was when I lost my love. Loving a pet is easy. Loving a pet enough to say goodbye... well, let's just say Webster hasn't quite come up with a good word to describe the way I felt. Feel. Whatever.

By the time Monday rolled around, I had given up on her. An amazing friend of ours took Daniel for the afternoon so that I could get her to the vet with as little distraction and interruption as possible. I am forever in her debt for her kindness in my hour of need. I will also never forget how much I leaned on my sweet Lia through that afternoon. I wore her in the Ergo as I talked to Maddie, stroked her fur, and cried tears of guilt, of loss, and of anguish. I had no real reason to feel guilty - I think it's just one of those stages of grief you go through. Somebody agree with me. Please. Having Lia near me - physically and emotionally - helped me get through the afternoon. Dr. Parker ran some tests and determined she had a terrible infection. 105 fever and some ridiculous blood counts.

The estimate was $508. I couldn't make that call on my own, so I did what any distressed wife would do - I called my husband in tears. Lia petted me, I cried, and I tried to get through the blood work results and the costs associated with the overnight IV of fluids and antibiotics without totally losing it. I don't know what I expected Doug to say, but his words made me love him deeper and stronger than I ever have before. "She's a good dog. And a tough dog. And she deserves to fight." Tears are streaming down my face as I type this, two weeks after the fact. There's a quote I run across pretty often - "We never touch people so lightly that we do not leave a trace.' In this situation, these words touched me so strongly that I don't think I'll ever forget them or the way they made me feel.

I went home that night not knowing what to expect. I knew in my head that she wasn't going to make it, but my heart wasn't willing to give up yet. After talking to Dr. Parker the next morning, I had even more hope. She suggested that I stop by with the kids to visit. Maddie had stood on her own and her fever had broken during the night. When we arrived that afternoon, Maddie had back slid. When I asked Dr. Parker what to do the day before, she gently told me that she didn't have a crystal ball and didn't know what she would do in my shoes. This time, she couldn't look me in the eye and told me that there was no reason for her to suffer any longer. God knows - and only God knows - how I managed to get out of that office without breaking down into a total blubbering mess. Signing a euthanasia consent form with a baby on my hip and my 3-year-old at my side was one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. We said goodbye once more, Daniel not really understanding but somehow sensing that this was *really* goodbye. He leaned in over Maddie and said to her, "I'm sorry, Maddie. I'm sorry this happened to you." I have never been more proud of him.

That night, I sat on the couch with Doug and cried. I cried for how much I missed her. I cried for how much I loved her. I cried for so many things. For the ache in my heart, for the happiness she brought me, for the good times we had. Doug and I recalled our favorite memories. His were of the time she defended him from his brother and drew blood and the time she leaped over the front seat of the truck to land on the dashboard... she hated windshield wipers. Mine were of the time my roommates painted her green, the way she used to sit on her kennel and howl when I pulled out of the driveway, the time she licked my tears from my face when my teenage world was falling apart. I laughed about the time she penned the neighbor's horse. The way she thought she could swim but really sunk like a brick. The way she used to pick grapes off the vine as we drove to the lake.

The hardest part of losing my baby was having to be strong for my kids. It never occurred to me that somebody would mourn her more fiercely than I would. It never occurred to me that our 13 years together could be trumped by Daniel's entire little life with her. He's never known a day without Maddie. Telling him that Maddie was gone was every bit as hard as telling her goodbye. He asked me if we could pray to God for Him to bring Maddie home safely. All I could muster was, "He did, baby." The last two weeks have been hard. I miss the way she used to lie by Lia's door as I put her to bed. I miss her smell. I miss the way her coat felt under my hands. I miss my dog.

But ultimately, I am thankful. I am thankful for the way that she loved me and my family. I am thankful for the happiness she brought us over the last 13 years. I am thankful that Doug agreed to give her a chance to fight. I am thankful for that freezing Valentine's Day in Seguin when I plucked her from the back of a pickup truck in the Walmart parking lot. A friend of mine was too right when she said that Maddie was the best thing to ever come from Walmart.

Goodbye, Maddie. I love you with all my heart. Thank you for teaching me how to care for another. Most of all, thank you for loving me unconditionally. May you rest peacefully knowing you did your job well. Well done, good and faithful friend.

Thanksgiving - honored, not forgotten

I keep hearing people say that Thanksgiving is the "forgotten holiday." I think that in reality, Thanksgiving is the last man standing. Most of our holidays have been mercilessly ravaged by retail and marketing to the point that many people aren't sure why we celebrate them anymore. Poor Christmas got the worst of it. We have Christmas in July bazaars. Decorations hit the shelves in August and find their way onto rooves and lawns sometime just after Halloween. Christmas music haunts our shopping malls for at least 2 full months before Christmas day. And don't even get me started on the millions - make that billions - of Christmas events in December proper.

It seems like all of our holidays are becoming more and more like Christmas. I won't say the entire month of October is all about Halloween, but it's getting there. We carve pumpkins weeks in advance, pick out Halloween costumes in September, and start going to Halloween festivals as soon as humanly possible. Easter is headed in that direction as well. How many crosses do you see in the seasonal section at Target? Zip. But chocolate bunnies, Easter baskets in the shape of Power Rangers, and Peeps? Katie borrow the door. For Heaven's sake. We even have a creepy Easter bunny at the mall that terrifies children infinitely worse than jolly ol' Saint Nick.

But Thanksgiving? Thanksgiving stands alone. It needs no Hallmark commercials, no Wal-Mart catalogs reminding you that it's coming, no constant barraging to remind you to be thankful. It needs no countdown, no reminder that you only have X number of days to grocery shop for your feast, no giant festival in Time Square with a giant lit-up pumpkin to drop onto our heads to announce that Thanksgiving has arrived again. Perhaps that is because we do not celebrate Thanksgiving, we honor it. We quietly and gracefully give thanks in our own special ways. We change our Facebook statuses to tell others why we are thankful. We do turkey crafts after naptime and pick Indian names to put on our head bands. We have feasts with our friends and our co-workers. We follow our own traditions of turkey and dressing, even if your dressing is really, really weird.

I love my family's Thanksgiving traditions and to be honest (even if it is a bit embarrassing), I start looking forward to Thanksgiving dinner in April. It is a given that grace will be said, an entire can of cranberry sauce will likely be thrown into the trash, and the green bean casserole will be the first thing to go. I know that my mother will ask me, "What do you have to have for it to be Thanksgiving?" My answer never changes - candied yams. It's absolute law that you do not trim the tree or string a single Christmas light until the day after Thanksgiving. If you do not listen to John Denver and the Muppets while trimming said tree, well. . . that's grounds for dismal from the family. It is absolute law that you, under no circumstances, are ever to participate in Black Friday.

So hold your head high, Thanksgiving. You have stood the test of time. You do not need anything more than the meaning of your own name to carry on a true American tradition. You are truly a day to be honored and remembered - quietly, respectfully, and cheerfully.

So watch out, Mr. Turkey. You're going down. We've got some traditions to tend to.

Fall and Christmas

I love fall. I love Christmas. But I think I love fall more than christmas and I finally figured out why.

Christmas? It's like your Great Aunt Midge. She calls in August to tell you she's coming for the holidays. You groan and squint your eyes, sick with worry about everything you have to do before she comes. Oh holy night. Clean everything, down to the fresh-air return grate on the a/c. Your menu must be planned, practiced, and perfect. And that door jamb that's got scuffs on it? Might as well drag out the paint and rollers - that must be tidied before she arrives. Don't forget the lawn. Pristine, down to the glitter-embossed reindeer. Leaves raked. Driveway blown. Perfect. And don't even get me started on the gifts... What do you give her? How much should you spend? You know she's going to judge you when she opens it. Your gift selection says everything about you, you know. Stress, stress, stress. Money, money, money... I'm exhausted just thinking about it! And if that's not enough, she pollutes your life with reminders for 4 months before she finally shows up on your doorstep, white gloves and all. Songs, commercials, texts, and emails. Everywhere you look, you see her beady eyes inspecting every preparation you make for her impending arrival. When she finally gets here and the inspection is over, you really are so glad she came. You enjoy her visit for three days and then you're just as glad to see her go.

But fall? Oh fall. Fall is my cousin Kelly who lives in California. She writes movie scripts and goes camping for vacation. She joined the Peace Corp, but now she's just a Calofornia granola cruncher who grows sprouts in her window sill and once made her own pants from wheat she harvested with her bare hands. I haven't seen her since ... Huh. I can't remember the last time I saw her, but one day I open my front door to go check the mail and there she is, standing on my doorstep with her arms open wide. Oh what a reunion! We hug and laugh and cry and the kids are giddy with delight. Aunt Kelly always convinces me to let them stay up late watching rated R movies and they somehow always manage to get chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast when she's here (even if they are vegan...). I can't recall what day she got here, but I never want to see her go. We reminisce and drink pumpkin lattes and run outside until our throats are raw with the chill air. We play in the leaves and fly kites and make s'mores and laugh and laugh and laugh. One morning, I wake up to find a little note announcing her departure and a package she left for the kids. Frost is on the ground and I can smell winter on the air.

Unlike Christmas, fall arrives with no pomp, no preamble, no preparation. You're stuck standing in your closet when the cool air arrives, at a loss for which jeans actually fit. You hail a silent "suh-weet!" when you drive through the local bagel shop and notice that pumpkin has returned to the menu. Fall is simple and unadorned. And as much as you rejoice at its arrival, there's no countdown and no long list of to-dos to complete before she plops herself on your front porch and stays for a spell. And as much as you lament her departure, there's always the memories you made and the promise of more fun to come.

So welcome, fall. We sure are glad to see you. Won't you stay for dinner?

A blog is worth a thousand pictures

I like to think of my blog as a verbal photo. It's just a snapshot of the parts of my life worth remembering. The funny moments. The sweet things my kiddo says. Revelations I have in the middle of the night. Even a place to vent, whine, or complain. But it's certainly *not* a real representation of our lives. Not even close.

Recently, I've been struggling. Daniel hasn't been sleeping well which, of course, means I haven't been sleeping well. I start my mornings off angry with him. He's been a good sleeper his entire life and is suddenly getting out of bed 3-4 times a night "to go potty." I wake up grumpy, but I'm soon revitalized by funny faces, a cooing baby, and my two cups of coffee. We usually head to the Y, and after a quick workout, I spend 10-15 minutes in prayer. I beg God - beeeeg God - to make me the mother He wants me to be. I beg for patience. I beg for Him to let me see my kids the way He sees them (by "kids" and "them," I mean Daniel - Lia doesn't do anything. . . yet). I tell Him that I *know* these strong-willed characteristics that Daniel displays are going to serve him well one day and may even serve Him well one day. Right now? They're pushing me to the brink.

I usually come out of the chapel feeling refreshed and ready to face the world (and anything Daniel can dish out at me). My mediation usually carries me through lunch and even into the early afternoon. But around "nap" time, something gives. While Daniel should be napping, he's in his room doing anything but. Knocking on the walls (which, of course, keeps Lia from sleeping), gagging himself on his blanket (to the point of vomiting in his bed), even tearing pages out of his Bible (which, incidentally, nearly sent me over the edge). I lose my patience. I yell. I threaten. I deliver. I feel guilty. And I don't know how to fix it.

***Just an fyi to anyone reading this, I think if I get this down on paper, I'll find a solution. I guess this is the written equivalent of thinking out loud.***

Maybe if I spent Daniel's "quiet" time on my knees the afternoons would go better. But I'm just so darned tired (because he's keeping me up at night) that I inevitably drift off while Lia naps. At least I'm rested, but I don't have the grace I need to carry me through the hardest hours of my day. Where do I find it? Perhaps with the cooler temps, we'll try an after-nap walk. Maybe if I can get out in the world and take a few deep breaths, the hardest part of the day will seem a little easier to face.

In the meantime, I'll just keep praying, keep breathing, and keep remembering that he'll only be little for a little while. One day, I'll wake up and he'll be grown. I'll long for these days, when my baby needed me and I ruled the roost. I hope that I look back on these days with fondness (not frustration) and maybe my blog will be worth a thousand pictures, even if it's a snippet of my frustration that's frozen in time.

Jesus and a plunger

We slept at my house last night - for the first time in over a month, nobody woke up in hysterics, nobody woke me up to go potty, and (even more miraculously) nobody woke me up to eat. I felt amazing and decided to show my appreciation for my answered prayer by belting out a few hymns. One of my favorites (especially since Grandma died) is Victory in Jesus. For those of us not raised in the Baptist church, it goes like this:

O victory in Jesus,
My Savior, forever.
He sought me and bought me
With His redeeming blood;
He loved me ere I knew Him,
And all my love is due Him,
He plunged me to victory,
Beneath the cleansing flood.

Leave it to Daniel to put an even bigger smile on my face. He says to me (completely earnestly - the way only a child can), "Why does Jesus need a plunger?" I rolled. I laughed so hard *both* my babies laughed with me.

I had this image of Jesus, Bible in his hands, sitting on the pot. It had never occurred to me exactly what the Bible means when it says "fully man and fully God." In an instant, I got it. Vulnerable to all of the inconveniences of daily life - down to a backed up toilet (or an overflowing hole in the ground, as the case may be). As many wonderful memories as I associate with this hymn, I now have one more - Jesus plodding through the house, grumbling about the plumbing, going to unplug the potty. Victorious, indeed.

Explaining Heaven

God and Heaven and Jesus are heavy topics to discuss with a three-year-old. We've been reading Daniel's Bible almost nightly since he was about 4 months old. We've read it through several times. We pray every night at bedtime. We go to church as often as we can. I try really, really hard to make Christianity a part of our every day lives -in my words, my actions, and my reactions. I'm not always successful, but I try. Sometimes, I think I might be succeeding.

On Easter, we went to my parents' house to swim. We were splashing around in the pool, talking about much of nothing. My dad asked Daniel about Easter. "Why do we celebrate Easter?" Daniel looked at him funny (we still struggle with the concept of celebration). I rephrased it for him, "Daniel? What did Jesus do on Easter?" Without a breath's hesitation, he looked at my dad and said, "He took away all my sins. All the bad things." Tears sprung to my eyes. I can only imagine how God felt to hear such sweet words.

A few weeks ago, Daniel and I had the following conversation:

Daniel: Where is Daddy?
Me: Daddy's at work.

Daniel: Where is YOUR daddy?
Me: Buddy? Buddy's asleep.

Daniel: Where is HIS daddy?
Me: He's in Heaven.

Daniel: Is he God?
Me: No, sweetie. He's with God.

Daniel: Is he Jesus?

Me: Nope, but he's with Jesus, too.

Daniel (extended thoughtful pause): So is he Goliath? Or is he Moses?

Conversations like these will stick with me for the rest of my life. I, of course, went on to explain that there are more people in Heaven than just God, Jesus, Goliath (who, if I remember the Philistines correctly, probably is NOT in Heaven), and Moses. When he asks things like this, I know he's listening, even if he doesn't quite get it.

My favorite Heaven discussion to date happened just this Thursday. We were driving to the Y for a quick workout when Daniel piped up from a rare, pensive silence in the back seat. "How do you get to Heaven?" See, we've talked lots about how to get to where our family members are. You take a plane to Phoenix or to Qatar (Nana and PopPop, respectively), you drive to Buddy and Gram's, you drive aaaaaaaaall day to get to Denton (Uncle Jon and Aunt Kristin), you drive part of the day to get to Giddings (Granny and PopPop), etc., etc., etc. I guess he just wondered how to get to God. I launched into a pretty moderate explanation about Salvation. You have to tell God thank you for Jesus and thank you for taking away my sins (I'm still too chicken to explain death. . . ). You have to tell God that you love Him and you want Him to be with you always. I started to add a few other details, but noting the look on Daniel's face, I stopped. "Daniel? Is everything ok?" Daniel responded in a very non-Daniel small voice, "I want Him to hold me. I want Him to hug me." The only words that would come were, "Me, too, baby. Me, too."

Later that day, Daniel, Lia, and I curled up in Brother's bed for a nap. We all snoozed for awhile, but I woke up long before the kids did. As I lay there between my babies, it occurred to me that I was probably as close to hugging God as I would ever come on this planet. Hearing them breathe. Smelling Lia's newborn smell and Daniel's I'm-three-and-I-play-hard-outside-all-day smell lingering together (call me crazy, but with a better name, Scentsy might could make some money on that one). Feeling their tiny, warm bodies curled up against mine. I couldn't help but think that this was God's way of hugging me before my time. I closed my eyes and took in the sensation. And I thanked God for hugging me, for making it possible for me to even consider such a thing.

The destiny of hairy balls

Yes, you read that right. Keep reading. If I do a good enough job of telling this story, your abs and your sides will ache.

A few days ago, I was bathing Daniel. He's suddenly become very interested in all things below the belt. Normal, of course, but I'm just not quite ready to have some of these talks. The boy is just three. Anywho, I'm bathing Daniel and he asks, "What do my balls do?" I was taken a little off guard, and like I said, I'm not ready to have that conversation yet. So I said, "Nothing. Yet. But when you grow up, they'll do something." In an effort to keep things simple, I tend to give him the shortest, most innocuous answer possible. Of course that usually leads to more questions, but I don't want to back myself into a corner if he's not ready to have "that" talk. Much to my dismay, he pressed on. "What will they do when I grow up?" Still unwilling to have that talk, I balked and dodged and spit out the only thing that came to mind. "They'll get hairy." He left it at that.

This morning, we were watching Kung Fu Panda. Po said something about the Sword of Destiny. Daniel did was Daniel does. "What's 'destiny?'" At that exact moment, Lia pooped and Doug came into the living room. I offered Doug the choice - change the diaper or explain "destiny." He chose destiny. So off I go, wipes in hand, to change Lia. "Well, Daniel. Destiny is easy. When you grow up, it's what you were meant to do." I was impressed. Simple explanation for a very abstract idea. Daniel completely blew it out of the water. "Daddy? Do you have balls?" I swallowed a laugh and almost gave myself a hernia in the process. Doug stammered for a moment, entirely dumbfounded, but came clean with, "Yes, Daniel. I have balls." I was hoping to God Daniel would leave it at that, but he went there. "Are your balls hairy?" At this particular point, I nearly died. I know you aren't supposed to laugh when they say things like that, but I just couldn't help it. I laughed. And laughed. And laughed. And poor Doug. All he could come up with was, "Let's talk about something else."

Because I'm with the child all day every day, I got it. I completely understood the leap from "destiny" to "hairy balls." No one else on the planet could have possibly seen the connection, but clearly, Daniel associates "growing up" with "hairy balls." I can see the shock and horror on his kindergarten teacher's face now. "So, class. What do you think you'll do when you grow up?" Daniel will shoot his hand into the air and wait patiently to be called on. When it's his turn, he'll matter-of-fact say, "I'm going to have hairy balls." We will spend our afternoon being shuffled back and forth between the counselor's office and the principal's office and I'll be labeled as a terrible mother.

Sometimes, I wonder if I'm doing a decent job of explaining the "hard things." I've avoided death like the plague. We have several family members in same-sex relationships. I've tried my darnedest to explain why sometimes we have aunts and uncles and sometimes we have aunts and aunts. I'm not sure whether my explanations are sufficient or just plain confusing. I wonder if I'm setting him up to be tolerant or judgmental. Sometimes I wonder if he's listening to anything I'm saying. This morning he answered that question. He's listening. And even though he might not "get it," he's putting it all together.