Why this one?

I’m on a mission to save Otis. He is a five(ish)-year-old Boxer I found yesterday near my office. He was walking down a busy street. I picked him up without thinking it through. I can’t leave a dog. 

My last fostering experience ended with the death of a dog I had grown to love. Cooper was an English Coonhound I fostered through a rescue. I had never fostered formally before, and I expected more support. I expected more communication. I networked the dog myself, and found a potential home for him in Florence, South Carolina. The people filled out the application, sent in their vet references, and I did the home visit. Everything looked perfect. A week later, I received a text from the rescue organization director. It read: Cooper is dead. Upon calling the director, I learned that the adopting couple had left the dog in their parents’ outdoor kennel while they were moving. Cooper was bitten by a snake and he died. The director was angry and sad. And she blamed me.

Rarely does a day pass that I don’t think of Cooper, being bitten and dying — maybe slowly — alone on a summer day. It gnaws at me. If I had just kept him a little longer. If I had adopted him to a family in Greenville. If I had not been so eager to get him adopted. 

There’s no happy ending there. No resolution. For a long time, Matthew forbade me from fostering. I complied, not because I’m good at listening, but because I felt like I was shitty at rescuing dogs. 

A few people I work with love animals as much I do. About a month ago we pooled money to rescue a yellow lab, Cherokee, who was just hours away from euthanasia. After pulling her from the shelter, we realize she was in bad, bad shape. At the emergency vet, we were advised that due to a vast number of simultaneous issues, the dog should be humanely euthanized. We agreed. And we were publicly berated for the decision.

So yeah. I’ve had two horrible experiences. I’ve questioned myself and my ability and my commitment and my decisions. But when I saw Otis lumbering down the street, panting and affixed with a thousand-yard stare, I didn’t question myself.

If you’d like to learn more about Otis and his story, check out his Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/saveotis. If you’d like to help us with his medical expenses, check out his donation page: https://www.youcaring.com/saving-otis.  

Best damn smoothie

Matthew wanted pizza tonight. I wanted to eat clean, because I’ve been a little off track lately and that makes me feel pretty bad, both physically and mentally. Over the past few months I’ve been going to a gym, shelling out money for a personal trainer I can’t afford, and lifting heavy. My body has noticed. And all those people who swore that working out would terminate my stress: Hats off to you. I concede. I hated you for a while, but you were right and I was lazy.

Back to the smoothie. I typically make this killer green smoothie from Thug Kitchen, but I’m out of pineapple and orange juice. Meh. I did, however, have organic strawberries, a few blueberries at the bottom of a carton, and a big tub of spinach. Improvisation.

Throw it in.

There’s really no recipe; just take what you think might be alright and mix it up. I used:

6 strawberries
15 or 20 blueberries (this isn’t a food blog, ok?)
Handful and a half of spinach
Little bit of milk
Little bit of plain yogurt
Couple chunks of already frozen bananas

Trust me on this: You do not taste spinach. Translate me on this: Your kid will not taste spinach.

The Nitty Gritty

I had always equated nits (head lice if you’re nasty) with John Hughes-era, backwoods elementary schools in dirt-road Appalachia. I mean, really, who gets lice?

We do.

About three weeks ago, just as school was about to end for the year, Cole mentioned that his head was itchy. As this coincided with the first days of a Southern Summer, I chalked it up to sunburned scalp. Just a week ago, he had his mop cut into a smooth, swim-friendly cut. The hairstylist clearly didn’t notice his head was, uh, apparently home to parasites.

What you know about rocking a wolf on your noggin?

How did we not know? Well, because you don’t know what you, uh, don’t know? He never complained of itching, sans twice in three weeks. I would have never even thought to look. Until we thought to look.

Tonight the kid has suffered through my cleaning mania, which is far more focused on the child than on the house. I find my own behavior a tad uncharacteristic, because I have a tendency toward obsession in terms of a clean home. The way I look at it, though, is that the bugs don’t live for long when not lovingly attached to a head, so fix the kid, fix the house. That translated to an hour and a half spent in the bathroom, first washing his hair with tea tree oil, then with Nix®, followed by the gel and a metal fine-tooth comb. He was a trooper, shedding just a few tears from the initial pull of the comb. At 10pm, he is asleep, his head clean but coated with a big-ass glob of Pantene hair mask and olive oil, in a hopeful attempt to get the last of those fuckers. And while I write here, relatively safe on a leather couch, Matthew washes all manner of bed and furniture coverings, God bless him.

It’s nasty business.

Funny thing, though. As much as it’s a giant pain in the ass, I am not… freaking out (much). It’s unpleasant, yes. It’s tedious, mmhm. But in the mammoth vastness of bad potentialities, this is small potatoes. And for the first time in a week or more, Cole and I had a quiet conversation. As I combed through the gel plastered to his hair, inch by excruciating inch, we talked.

Am I saying it’s been a blessing? Hell no. But I’m saying that sometimes it takes a little inconvenience to slow me down and jar me into awareness. Cheers, universe.

gratitude

There are many times that I wake up, stumble to the bathroom for my contact case, and start the day with a low buzz of swirly, got-to-do thoughts. Sometimes I remember to stop myself. I take a breath, slow the head race, and remember these things for which I’m grateful:

for a healthy child

for matt, who loves dogs (almost) as much as me.

for the guardian of all small creatures.

for friends like this.

 

and this.

 

for a house full of fur.

for good sleep and a warm bed.

You is kind. You is smart. You is sometimes a jackass.

“If you don’t start out too big for your britches, how are you gonna fill ’em when you grow up?”
– Stephen King

There are times, many, in fact, that I wonder if Cole doesn’t have a tad more ego than the average dirty-pants’d six-year old. Maybe ego is the wrong word. Maybe it’s not. I’d like not to admit that he’s either overly self-centered or bursting with an unrealistic (bloated) view of self. But he does think pretty well of himself. He’s happy to be Cole. So happy that, upon playing a “What Are You Thankful For?” game with the family, Cole wrote one word: Me.

From a Buddhist perspective, ego is a center of self, but it’s the false center, the one derived from others. True center is the one you’re born with — that’s the self. A kid is born without consciousness of self, and once born, the child because aware of the Other. The child is aware of his mother, how she holds him, smiles at him, and tells him, “You are precious to me.” And through that love and care, he feels good and important and valuable.

And then, through that interaction with the Other, he becomes increasingly aware of thatthingwecallself. He goes to school and learns that he’s not the center of the universe. Sometimes he fails. People don’t like him. Someone rolls her eyes. Another tells him that he’s not cool. Problem is, though, that’s not real awareness. It’s reflected. It’s born of a million different interactions with Other. It’s a complex, growing, tangled thing that’s shaped by how the world reacts to us. Ego changes. The reflected center grows and shifts and mutates until it’s a great hulking thing that we believe is … us.

(It’s not.)

Now is it possible that I’ve bolstered inflated Cole’s view of self? You bet it is. I lavish praise on the kid. I may have, on occasion, given him a line from The Help: You is kind. You is smart. You is important.

 

I’ve gotten better, though. I have. I didn’t realize that I might be doing him a disservice with the over-the-top ERMERGERD YOU’RE SO GREAT until sometime last year. And now, I’m careful to praise him for hard work, rather than intelligence; for kind action, rather than sweetness; for a job well done, rather than innate ability. And I’m honest. When he asks, “Am I the best bike rider you’ve ever seen?” I give it to him gently, but I give it to him true.

He’s working out his identity. I’m working on ensuring that identity is solid and realistic about his strengths and weaknesses. Again with the balance.

Up the street

Last week we lost Big Ellie.

Oh, sweet hound.

She and our Australian shepherd, Lady, stay outside most days until I get home with Cole in the afternoons. So when we arrived home last Monday to only Lady waiting at the gate, I knew something was amiss. My first instinct was that, given Big El’s recent cancer diagnosis and her bout with bronchitis, the hound might be somewhere toward the back of the yard, sick. Or that she had run away to die. I guess dogs do that.

Hours later, we received the phone call that brought her back home. Until yesterday, we hadn’t figured out how she was making the grand escape. Walking around the fence yet another time, searching for her route out into the great beyond, I wandered and Big ‘El ambled with me. And against the side fence, the once that divides our property from the house with two other fool dogs, El made her move. She crouched. She shimmied. She scurried as fast as a 90-pound, 9-year old fatty can scurry, under the fence. Halfway under, I pulled her back. And I saw the hole she’d dug.

El is grounded, banished to the life of an indoor dog or an on-leash dog until we can make the fencing secure. She’s unhappy about this, and so are we. But she managed to escape again today, straight through the front door and across the street. This time, I caught her before she slipped out of our lives again.

I don’t know why she wants, so badly, to get out into the world. But she wants to. She simply must. She’s willing to brave busy roads and unkind strangers and the uncertainty of her next meal to get a taste of freedom.

I wish I were a little more like that. Motherhood has made me cautious. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I am no less happy today than I was seven years ago. I’m more content right this millisecond than I’ve ever been. I am comfortable with myself. It’s cozy in my own skin. I’ve grown up. But in that growing up (and growing wiser, let us hope), I’ve lost some of the spontaneity that drives growth. Is that possible?

Does getting older mean getting complacent?

There seems to be a difference, however subtle, between complacency and learning to find contentment with what you have right now. Right now, I don’t much want for grand travel or some childhood remembrance of freedom. My want is more internal, more about finding what I’m here to do (other than to parent, which has proven to be my greatest calling in the most delightfully unexpected way). The wild streets and endless possibility and exhilarating uncertain aren’t really just outside the front door. They’re here. All around me. And the simple matter of throwing off the quiet, slinging open the door, and getting up the street—it’s as easy as deciding.

Whooaly shit

Time flies. Let’s jump right in.

The Kaiser started his first year of Catholic school in early fall. Thus far, it’s been (mostly) sunshine and pretty, pretty roses. Of course, the homework overfloweth, the work rampeth upward, and the push for mommy-centric volunteerism is high. I’m good with those things.

For All Saints Day (uh, happy All Saints Day), Father Smith sprinkled the classrooms with holy water. Now I don’t really understand this, because A) it sounds messy and B) it sounds stupid, but that’s what they do. Cole tells me this with some glee. “And he came in and [exuberant hand motion] sprinkled us with holy water.”

That’s nice.

“The power of Christ compels you…. to do your spelling.”

Whatever. But a droplet of holy water found its way to Cole’s cheek. He darted his tongue out. Licked it away.

And as he tells me his tale, we eat and I smile and nod, nary making a single solitary sarcastic comment. And then, he dropped the bomb.

“Mom, after I ate the holy water, I suddenly remembered all of Hail Mary.”

“Huh?” I pause, fork to mouth.

“Before I licked the holy water, I couldn’t remember the prayer. After I licked it, I remembered it. I knew it all.”

He is convinced a miracle occurred. And who am I to squash his belief? But I don’t really have a good response for that, so I mumble and nod and smile and stuff spaghetti into my mouth. He reaffirms his thinking aloud, retelling the story, and his eyes implore me to make a comment on what is surely the hand of GOD HIMSELF at work in the world. And I do. I tell him that that’s really great and cool and that I’m so happy that he’s learned Hail Mary (he hasn’t–still says, “Blessed is thou among women and blessed is thafudodawubJesus”).

It’s a brave new world for us. I’m not big on organized religion. I’m not big on dogma and legalism. I’m not big on (any of that) Old Testament drivel. But Cole is, and I have to balance my desire for him to take it all with a grain of salt with what clearly brings him joy. He’s thrilled about God. He loves to talk about the sublime and abstractions–the very bigness of it all. And he’s a little fundamental in his belief, as I imagine most six-year olds are. He believes in the Flood. He believes that God is very clearly male. He believes that Adam and Eve were part of a perfect creation story. He wonders why God makes hurricanes. He knows that bad people go to hell.

It’s hard for me. It’s hard to give him other information without confusing the hell out of him. It’s hard to hear beliefs I don’t share. But we made the decision to put him in a Catholic school. Now I’m making the decision to leave his faith to him, and do my best not to bruise his mustard seed.

Sweet house

It’s been forever. ForEVER. I meant to post as soon as I signed the papers and moved in — but moving into a new house is no small feat and my list of “gotta do this/get this/fix this/rearrange this” is huge. I’m happy. I love it. Cole loves it. The dogs love it. And our chickens, coming soon, are gonna love it. Highlights:

Must grow grass.

I took this picture a few minutes ago, just for the blog. And upon coming back in, this greets me:

From my front porch looking in.

And one of my favorite sights when I come home:

Leftover marigolds and firewood. Feels like home.

Live like this

I’ve lived out my melancholy youth. I don’t give a fuck anymore what’s behind me, or what’s ahead of me. I’m healthy. Incurably healthy. No sorrows, no regrets. No past, no future. The present is enough for me. Day by day. – Miller, Tropic of Cancer

How very Buddhist of you, Mr. Miller.

The closing on our new house is in six days. We have boxes to pack and Goodwill loads to deliver and closets to dig through. I have utility companies to call and carpets to clean and a dreadfully sick fish to medicate. But for now, for a while, let’s sit and love each other.

Favorite things.

Wasp love

‘Round about late March, a little paper wasp found her way to the wooden stairs of our apartment. She began building herself a home. For days, Cole was terrified of the wasp. But we walked around her, up the left side of the stairway. Up and down, several times a day, and each time, Cole would mention her. On the colder evenings, she’d be gone, presumably to somewhere warmer (really, I have no idea, but this is a fairly reasonable explanation). We’d wait for her to return. We’d come home from school and work, crouch by the stairs, and say hello.

Hey, girl.

We liked her. We watched as she built her little paper-wasp nest, a tiny bit bigger by the week. She worked tirelessly. Cole and I looked up how these cool insects makes their homes and how that’s where they lay their eggs. We learned the difference between wasps, hornets, bees, and carpenter bees.

Bird by bird, she builds.

Last week, one of Cole’s friends killed the wasp. After an afternoon of playing, the boys walked up the stairs before me. I carried two scooters and a skateboard. Cole cried out, sat down on the stairs. I knew what had happened before I climbed up beside him. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t.

“It was going to sting me!” His friend exclaims, indignant.

“She would never sting you. I loved her.” Cole looks into her nest. “She has eggs.”

I ushered the boys inside. I was pissed. I was sad. I wanted to scream at the kid. I didn’t, but it hurt my heart. It was a shitty thing to do. It was a thoughtless thing to do. It’s also… what most little boys do.

That night Cole, Matt, and I went to dinner later at Atlanta Bread Company. On his menu, Cole drew the wasp. He wrote her a note. Later, after his dad picked him up, I took our friend from the stairs, her body a squashed mess, and I put her by a big oak tree. I said I was sorry. And all along, I wondered if I had completely lost my fucking mind.

“I love you wasp.” That purple bit that looks like, uh, Texas is the step, with her nest dangling from it.

I don’t think so, though. It was a life. I’ve taught Cole that we don’t kill — not on purpose, ever. We take bugs outside and release them. We help where we can. We respect all life. And this wasp, over the course of two months, had become part of our daily routine; she brought us joy. It was a little life, but it was a life. We watched her work hard, day after day, to do her waspy thing. She hurt no one.

And while the life of a common paper wasp is insignificant to most, I’d imagine, and worthless to more, I’m glad that we grieved. I’m glad that we care. I’m proud of the boy.