Struggling With My Hands And Feet

"Do you want an apple? Banana? Bread?" ...pass the tray...

"Do you want an apple? Banana? Bread?" (smile) ...pass the tray..

I'm watching boy use 5 foot tongs to place brownies, balanced on top of chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans..apples and bananas, and bread.

I'm watching girl ladle gravy, husband scoop mashed potatoes.

I'm watching that 7 year old kid come back for 2nds. I'm watching that 70 year old man come back for 3rds.

I'm watching people go through the clothes girl brought in to donate.

I'm watching it all, I'm standing on my 2 feet, and using both hands..

Yet, they seem to be struggling. I'm struggling.

I get that all these people do not have the same story as him. I get that not all of them lie, cheat, and steal. I get that not all of them abandoned their children, their mothers, their fathers...their sisters. I get that not all of them missed their grandmother's funeral. I get that not all of them stick needles in their arms..using, selling, stealing, lying, scamming, dying.

Not all of them. But I'm sure some of them might..

I also get that no one asked to be here. I get that he didn't ask to be where he is now..

I go, hoping to just help feed someone, who is hungry for whatever reason. Maybe they just lost their job, and are struggling to make rent. Maybe they had to leave a violent marriage, and they need to feed their kids. Maybe they have an untreated mental illness, and this is the only life they are able to lead. Maybe I can't even begin to fathom what brings them in tonight..

And maybe they just got sucked into the fucking dark, dark world of drugs, and are unable and unwilling to get out. Maybe, the hold on them is so tight, that NO amount of hands that are reaching out are able to pull them out of this sinkhole. No matter how much screaming goes on, encouragement to grab HARD AND PULL, no matter how much money is spent on rescue efforts, they are unable to be rescued. It's simply a recovery effort now. And one that can only be done on their own. Who has ever heard of having to be rescued..by themselves?

You have cancer? I'll drive you to the doctor...run errands, clean your house..watch your kids, give you money.

You broke your leg? Ok..what do you need from the store? What time is your surgery?

You lost your job? Need to borrow some money? Want me to watch your kids while you job hunt?

You're homeless and addicted to heroin? hmm...well, good fucking luck to you. Let me know when you get over that.

Ooohhhh...Sounds so harsh, don't it? Well, I tried all the above tactics...the help, the store runs, the babysitting, the rehabs, the money, the suggestions, the listening ears. The advice, the, well, the blood sweat and tears that anyone would give when it comes to saving a life. And they did SHIT. Nothing.

I thought..hmm...can't kick a person when they're down. Give them a hand..

If only I "help" one more time, maybe this will be the time they see the LIGHT!

Nope. I'm here to tell you, that, no. None of my rescue efforts worked. Not a one. Drugs are stronger than me. I remain powerless.

Which brings me to tonight. I'm standing here, serving food to the homeless, the poor. I did it just last month. And I told myself, "someone has been feeding him these past 2 years, and I'm thankful for that. So, I can at least serve someone else's son..daughter." Right?

And it made me sad..to think of him. And it made me really fucking pissed off, to think of him.

There is NOTHING I can do to help him. To help him is to be handing him a loaded gun and saying "shoot". No matter how much he pleads for help, he has burned those bridges, because he had help from other sources until just last month.. for 3 years, he's had ongoing monetary help, and he did SHIT with it, except waste it. So no matter how much begging he does, or tells me he's going to get beat up, and his fingers are broken, and he needs clothes, and he's been sleeping in ditches...I can not, can not, can not help him. My brother.

I can not help my brother live.

I would only be helping him to die.

But tonight, I'm struggling. And here comes the part that will make me look like a fucking asshole..but, again..I'm struggling.

Some older man took a lot of the clothes daughter brought in...apparently he takes things like this to sell. He even took the roll of trash bags I brought for people to put their stuff in. Shit, someone stole the fucking hot sauce.

And, I can go to a nice restaurant and pay a lot of money for a nice steak..paying THEM, yet I still manage a please and thank you.

The people that managed a please and thank you were more noticeable as it was seemingly rare. Then there were the people who got mad when food ran out. Then there were the people who got real demanding about how they wanted their gravy ladled out. Then there were the ones who just kept pushing to get more and more and more.

And I know. God knows I know...that there are reasons for this. And probably, if I didn't have him in my life, demanding, and stealing, and lying, and scamming, I probably wouldn't be so pissed.

People get desperate. I get that. People lose certain skills, or were never taught them. Or are so tired, they just. Don't. Care. I'm aware of this..and all the other possibilities that bring the ugly out. I can assure you, I wouldn't have minded if it weren't for him. I wouldn't be so judgmental. I'm a lot more forgiving and understanding and empathetic and sympathetic than what I was displaying tonight..however..

I told my kids on the drive to the church, that what they are doing is being God's hands and feet. That while God is "everywhere", He can't physically be everywhere, and that's why He uses our hands and feet to do His work. And while God is with people as earthquakes and tsunami's ravage the earth, and will hold them and try to comfort those that He can reach, He can not physically be there to help rescue, recover and rebuild. His people do the work that He would have done. Little Christian soldiers, are what you are...

And I do believe that. I believe in being God's hands and feet. But tonight, my hands want to hit, and my feet want to kick. And that made me so sad. I'm not strong enough. I'm not like the women that come in here each Sunday to organize these meals. When people started lying and stealing, and scamming, I couldn't see pass my brother. That is all I could see. And I stood there, and someone complimented how great my children are, what helpers!! And I was standing there, shaking. Shaking. How I wished for their open-mindedness. Or innocence..

And I wanted to just find one person in the midst, where I could just see the face of God, and I was blinded. I just couldn't tonight.

And I hate that. Know, that I did not go tonight to be thanked. Or to have someone say "please". Or to be emotionally served. I didn't go in so that I could feel good about "what a good little deed" I did. ALL I wanted to do was feed someone. I just wanted to feed the loved one of someone out there. Just like someone has fed him. That's it. Pay it forward. Return the favor. Maybe I was wrong in that, but it is what it is.

And all I got was anger. And then I got mad at myself. And then frustrated. And then when I get mad AND angry like that, it makes me cry. So, that sucks. And I don't know right now how get beyond that. I'm sure time will help. I'm betting on God to forgive me. I don't like feeling any of this, but that's what's happening. Hopefully not forever

Another little ring on my tree..

Oh NO...

I don’t even know how to explain this one. But I will try...

It all started with this “craft” project, or is it a canning project?

Girl has this book, an Encyclopedia Of Immaturity, or something like that. It involves pranks, jokes, weird shit. It’s all good fun. One of the projects it has in it is how to make “Pickled Elf Bottoms”. It shows a jar, full of little bottoms. It is kind of funny, really. What you do is find some nylons, or...panty hose...God, I hate that even typing those words; Panty Hose..but whatever..and you cut them into 3 inch squares, put 2 cotton balls in it, tie it up with some string in a manner where it looks like little bottoms. Random..but 10 year olds love that shit...

So, of course we’re making some.

We’re on bottom #2, and it drops to the ground into the waiting mouth of Puppy. Now, whenever this dog gets something into it’s mouth and hears the words “NO! DROP IT! LEAVE IT!! NO!!” he immediately inhales it whole. So, that sucks..

So of course it lands on his tongue, Boy and Girl yell the command that means “swallow” to him, and he does. He ate a pickled elf bottom. And I don’t know what possessed me to do this, but I did.

I headlocked the dog, and I find myself sticking my index finger down his throat. I am literally trying to purge the dog. He’s squeaking and gagging, and the kids are watching their mom jam a finger down their dog’s throat. And all I’m thinking, all..I’m thinking, is “how do I explain this one to the Vet?” I mean, I can’t. And I won’t.

I get that dogs eat weird shit...and there’s been the kotex, and the tampons and all kinds of embarrassing items, but I just couldn’t see myself hauling the Encyclopedia into the Vet and say “We’re looking for one of these”.

Even as I’m jamming a finger wayyyy down his throat, it doesn’t occur to me that this is kind of fucked up. I’m only thinking of a conversation I’d like to avoid. The other weird thing is, Boy and Girl don’t even go “WHAT the FUCK are you doing?” Now, you’d think they wouldn’t swear like that...but in this case, I’d have welcomed that cold splash of water to lull me out of my weirdness..

Anyways, my attempt to get the dog to regurgitate failed. Later, he ate the knobby end of a rawhide whole. A little smaller than my fist...

Just goes to show you that my measly little finger stood no chance...

So, I’m hoping for a poop. I mentioned to husband that we’d need to keep an eye on Puppy’s ass for anything protruding yet not fully exiting. Like, if I wasn’t there, he’d have to deal. I suggested keeping a ziplock baggy handy that he could use as a glove to be able to birth it out if need be. Husband’s response to that: “Uh, no. No. If I see anything like that and you’re not around, he just gets shoved in the crate, and we will be leaving the house. You’re making me feel shaky just thinking about it.”

So, I’ve got THAT to worry about.

That New Car Smell

There comes a time in parenting when you pass a point. Many points, actually. The point of going out to dinner, and taking turns eating, or worse, ordering while at the same time asking for the bill and a to-go box just in case things go bad. I’ve even been at a restaurant and just asked for the food to be brought to the table already in the to go box. “Fuck it, just bring us plastic spoons and pull the car around” I’d say....

Pass the point of carrying around extra underwear (however, I might consider carrying my own) wipes, diapers, formula, shovels, extra water, bandaids, gas cans, duct tape, extra shoes, socks, toys, cameras, finger puppets, crackers, juice boxes, sippy cups, anti-venom, teething toys, butt balm, bug spray, sun block and a thigh tourniquet. Boy is eight and Girl is ten. We’re good. I mean, we carry shit around, but they carry it. If we don’t have it, they don’t need it.

Which led me to believe that when I was in the business of shopping around for a new ride, I no longer “required” leather seats. Rubber seats, plastic seats, whatever. we don’t need it, we’re good. Liquids stay in the mouth, food...same. No more stickers being tossed around, no more crayons baking in the sun.

Not. True.

Ok, so Husband and I go to buy me a new car. Now, on a side note, I’ll discuss how annoying that process is. Let me first say that I am not the world’s spokeswoman for Feminism. Open my door for me. Carry the heavy shit. Offer to “run me a hot bubble bath” because that’s all I “need to feel better”. Do it. I am all about that. I like bras. I like makeup. I like being treated like the lil lady. That does not mean that I am fucking daft, or clueless, or helpless, or wearing a burka. I have a name, and it’s not “wife”. Which is what the car salesman kept referring me to. When we were going through this whole process, it was “Mr. O’Brien” this and “Mr. O’Brien” that and “Mr. O’Brien, how far can I shove my head up your ass?” this. All the time, it was : “Mr. O’Brien, I’m sure your wife would....blah blah blah fucking blah blah blah her bra” or some shit like that. It was annoying. Fuck it, whatever, I’m a lady, so I kept my cool. But I signed all the documents first, Husband signed second....

Ok, so, three hours later, we’re done. We go get Boy and Girl who had gone to my parents. We have the new (to us) car. It is so clean and sparkly and smells so new (to us) it’s almost kind of gross but in a good way. I guess, it was just a foreign smell. And we’re excited, and they’re excited. We’re all excited to be driving home in our new car that doesn’t have leather seats. Or fill-in-the-blank repellant seats.

Which is why....hmmm...which is why what happened is so unfortunate. So we’re driving, and Boy and Girl are sitting right next to each other, and they are laughing. Hard. I kept hearing Boy say to Girl “STOP IT!!” laugh laugh laugh laugh....”STOP! I’m SERIOUS!” giggle giggle “STOP. IT. GIRL!! I’m gonna PEE MY PANTS!”.

There are certain things in life that when you hear them, you speed up. Whatever it is you’re doing. If you hear that certain sound dogs make as they’re about to barf, or the cat making that hairball sound, or just any “OH NO!!” coming from a different room, you are ON IT. Motion.

So when I heard “STOP IT! I’m gonna PEE MY PANTS!!” I was instantly, and I mean instantly doing 90 mph on a residential street. To the nearest stop. I am screaming at them to “STOP IT!! HE’S GONNA PEE HIS PANTS!” But all I’m met with is more laughing and the sound of a struggle. grunting. cringing...laughter.

I pull over, Boy hops out and is instantly peeing in the grass. I look back to where he’d been sitting. On my not leather interior of the car. And I see the spot. About as big around as a slice of bread. Wet. Pee. In my new to me car. It had not even made it home yet. The ink on the paperwork I signed was still as wet as the spot I was now looking at. He peed in my new car. It was like, seriously, 13 minutes, we’d been in the car.

I’ll be honest. Not one of my prouder parenting moments happened next. I lost my shit. I did. It was awkward how bad I was losing my shit. But we all made it home...off to bed..and I was using the pee cleaner I use for the puppy in my new car.

The next morning, I was at work. Everybody was asleep when I left. I’m at work, preparing for some random surgery, got the gown on, gloves, playing with instruments, going all OCD on my set up (that’s another story) and I’m thinking. God, I was an asshole about the peeing in the car thing. I mean, laughter. It was just laughter. Hearing them laugh is such a good thing..and I was a shit. I looked at the clock, and I had 5 minutes before they were supposed to go to school. Even as the patient was coming in the door, I took off my gown and gloves, left the OCD set up to wait, and called the kids. Of course, a few people heard my apology, and were laughing to themselves: “Hey guys, yeah, it’s mommy, how’d you sleep? Oh yeah? blah blah blah...Hey listen..about the whole peeing thing, it’s all good. I’m sorry I snapped. Yeah...it’s just pee. It’s just a car. You’re more important than a car...blah blah blah...I’m sorry I’m such an asshole. I love you...have a good day at school.”

We get past certain milestones in parenting. And we come to new ones. Being able to admit when you’re an asshole. Still better than schlepping around bottles and diapers any day. Well, fuck that...the diapers stay.

Parental Guidance

Well, I’ve had the talk with the Girl...The “coming of age” talk that every mother and young girl should have and sometimes never do. I can understand why. It’s hard to break the news to them...

The fact that girls can be bitches. In fact, I know someone, who’s mother told her at the age of ten, “women are bitches, and you’re one of them”.

I tried a little different approach with Girl. Basically, at the age of ten, and after her having a rough day, I said to her : “Girls can be bitches, and you are a girl. You can either be a bitch, or not”. But I let her know, they are out there, and they are not, have not, and will not go away. I also let her know, they don’t necessarily grow out of it. This is why I likened it to the other “Talk”. Kind of like...”yeah....well, yeah. Sorry. There’s some bat-shit crazy bitches out there, oh yeah, and by the way, that cramping/vomitting/diarrhea/emotional production you just had back there..it’s coming again. A lot. Sorry about that. Off to swim practice!!”

It blows blows blows blows blows. BLOWS to have to do that to them. She’s 10 years old. I was still acting out how Jane ran with the red ball with my Barbies at the age of 10. Not dealing with this crap. Everyday I send her off to school, I feel like instead of handing her backpack to her, I’m hanging chum buckets around her head and dropping her off in open water. There’s some crazy ass people out there raising some crazy ass kids. Seriously. (I’m secretly wondering if there’s someone writing right now these very thoughts, but instead of me picturing certain people, I’m like, in their line-up too) No matter..I have my own shit to worry about.

I have two great kids that have their own list of issues. They do. Keeps me up at night sometimes.. It does. But, they don’t go around doing weird shit like stealing other peoples things, or peeking in bathroom stalls, or spitting or kicking (unprovoked) or lying . What I mean is, they tow the line at school. They do. They screw up here at times, and at other’s who are family or like family. But that’s normal. We all walk around showing each other our asses in the household like a bunch of fucking baboons, but typically, manage to hold it together in public. Truly, they are pretty good at home too. However, they are so good at school, I’m surprised they haven’t come home one day and had a meltdown of such epic proportions that CNN would have been involved.

I try to teach them manners and right and wrong and what’s flexible and what they just shouldn’t let me catch them doing. I do. And then I drop them off at The Reef with open cans of tuna strung around their neck, and off they GO! They come back from their excursion with “stories”. “SO and SO had to go to the Principal’s office today”. Oh yeah??? “Uh huh...yeah.” So, with my interrogation skills that’d I’ve honed in my years with the CIA..I probe: “So, what’d she do?” Ok...That was sarcastic. Because you can NEVER ASK SUCH A SIMPLE AND DIRECT question to an eight year old boy. You literally have to provide every scenario that another 8 year old could possibly pull in class warranting a trip to the Principals’s office, like flashcards, or a flowchart almost, until the Boy is like “YEAH! YEAH! She did stop listening, and was not participating in the discussion and would not go when told and so, YEAH!! THAT’S IT MOMMY! She DID then pick up a chair and threw it across the room. And then four other teachers had to come and help remove her from the class. But mommy? You left out the part where our class was moved to Mrs. Johnson’s class when they came to get her.”

WHAT? STUPID me!! I haven’t incorporated an Evacuation Plan For When Shit Gets Weird in my list of possible scenarios for my “How Was Your Day At School?” Flashcards for my 2nd grader.

And then, I honestly try the good Motherly route like “Wow, that must have been weird for you..were you scared? How about her? She must have been having a real bad day. Let’s just hope she’s ok and things work out ok for her.” You know, trying to teach compassion and empathy and wah wah wah bwah bwah bwah. Because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Sometimes compelled, even. I mean, I’m really not trying to throw stones here. I’m not.

However. I am also charged with being a Mother FIRST to my assignments. And so, that is why my shit gets riled when others start affecting my kids. My daughter had things stolen from her. In her classroom. Other’s did too. Nice lesson at ten, no? If I need to send even $2 into the class for something, I have to write a check, because of this “problem”. That’s annoying. Do I feel concern for this child? The one who’s stealing? You bet. I do. And I’ve voiced those concerns. As I have about several concerning things that happen. However, I also don’t care to have my children be the practice playthings for a bunch of kids as they work out their social/emotional skills in the meantime. “Uh..Mr. Principal? So and So spit in Girl’s hair today and I believe kicked the girl sitting next to Girl in the shin.” Mr. Principal: “Uh yes, here at School Amazing, we have a diverse population of children of many social and emotional backgrounds stemming ............................ diverse and unique somewhat haphazard and diverse styles of ..................................and we need to be conscious of the needs of these special ............................Thanks for coming in.”

In the meantime, the kids that fly under the radar are being bounced around like the big red rubber things one might see in a Gorilla House at the Zoo when peering through the shit smeared window as these “.............................kids” practice socializing. The shit that they should be learning at HOME.

(ooooooh the VIEW from my SoapBox is amAZing!! I can see Bitter Valley, The River of Contempt, oh and look, it’s Mt. Apathy....as far as the eye can see!!!!)

Oh God...it doesn’t end with the kids. It’s the adults too, because the Boy just came home and informed me that they have now started putting mashed potatoes in the chicken noodle soup. He had a pretty sad look on his face. “You don’t go and mess with chicken noodle soup”, the face says. He goes on to describe “the mashed potatoes have hair in it”. “Hair?” I say. “Yes, hair. Lots of it. I’ve had it just alone before and there is always just these long hairs in it.” He then proceeds to pantomime what it’s like, finding said hairs. It kind of looks like someone pulling a piece of spaghetti out of their mouth really far, before they would slurp it back in. Minus the slurping back in part.

He seems to be ok though, he’s moved on because he’s now asking me what I think the Mad Hatter’s toenails might look like, or Yoda naked...so...that’s kind of weird. But he’s not hurting anybody.

I’m just trying my best with these two. And I hate it when others are messing with their world. I guess that’s part of life though..learning that there’s some bitches out there, and you can either be one or not.

The Things I've Missed Out On

Let me preface this by saying that I will not be dedicating all future stories to the Dog. There are plenty of other weirdnessesesesss' out there, but this one just happens to start with the dog.

It's come to my attention that there seems to be several, if not, multiple things that have slipped my notice over the years. Things that would appear common knowledge to my fellow peeps, it seems.

The most recent revelation? Apparently my Dog has anal glands. And I'm assuming he must have 2 of them, as he has 2 butt cheeks, but I didn't ask. And I suppose all dogs have these anal glands.

From Wikipedia: (warning the contents you are about to read may not be suitable for small children, those taking blue pills on Tuesdays and my Husband)

In dogs, these glands are occasionally referred to as "scent glands", because they enable the animals to mark their territory and identify other dogs. The glands can spontaneously empty, especially under times of stress, and create a very sudden unpleasant change in the odor of the dog. Dog feces are normally firm, and the anal glands usually empty when the dog defecates, lubricating the anal opening in the process. When the dog's stools are soft they may not exert enough pressure on the glands, which then may fail to empty. This may cause discomfort as the full anal gland pushes on the anus. The glands can be emptied by the dog's keeper, or more typically by a groomer or veterinarian, by squeezing the gland so the contents are released through the small openings on either side of the anus. Discomfort is evidenced by the dog scooting its posterior on the ground (commonly referred to as "butt-dragging"), licking or biting at the anus, sitting uncomfortably, difficulty sitting or standing, or chasing its tail.

I'm just going to let you know right now that I did not read the above passage. I just made the Girl go to Wiki and copy and paste for me, so I hope she looked up the correct word.

But I like my readers to be informed...

So. The reason I know that Dog had anal glands is because he took a trip to the Groomers! Whipppeee! Ok. I now have a dog, that involves littleness, clothes, and a need for grooming. If you've read my earlier story about Dog, you'll have learned that he has hair issues. He is a terrier/poodle mix, and his hair looks pubic-esque. I really never thought grooming was in his future until the day the "Tuft" arrived. He has the kind of tail that curls up. And I kind of started noticing that the hair around his anus or "butthole" was beginning to grow a ring or tuft of hair around it that you just SIMPLY could not stop staring at. I stood out like a little shrub. But, I never said anything. Until I think..well, I'm not sure who brought it up first, me or Husband, but one of us threw the Tufty Elephant in the Living Room out on the the carpet to be discussed. Basically, Husband said he couldn't "Deal" because it was so "weird" and he was "getting to point where he couldn't walk him anymore because he couldn't....deal".

The Tuft had to go. We discussed our options. I tossed a few ideas around in my head for a few seconds. Plus, he kind of smelled like cornchips. I called the Groomers. We had an appointment at 2:30.

We roll up, me, Dog, Boy, Girl. We have absolutely NO idea what to expect. They go over the basics.

They are going to : (the following are all the Groomer's words)

give him a bath clean his ears express his anal glands give him a cute teddybear cut around the face get rid of his little beard he's got going and totally ages him smooth out the hair on his body trim the hair on his tail and cut his nails.

Now, simultaneously we have TWO things going on here. I just want the Tuft gone and it has yet to be addressed, and right at the VERY beginning, did she just say something about anal glands??

So, I decided I'm on a mission, a need to know kind of mission, and I need NOT know about anal glands, so I 180 Dog around and say :

"We really need to address the Tuft on his butthole"

Girl just groans, Groomer is just like "Sure!! Come back in 3 hours!!!"

3 hours?? Yeah, sure, Ok, whatev.

45 bones...Dog looked awesome...I mean, he really did. Tuft was gone, clean as a whistle. I'm assuming the glands were able to be expressed. How liberating for everyone.

Now, about this whole anal gland thing. Apparently, EVERYONE IN THE WHOLE WORLD knows that dogs have them. Because as I was relating this story to people they're all like, "yeah, they have these things in their butts!! Makes 'em SCOOT!!"

And I'm wondering why I never heard of this before. Where was I?

1 year in the back of an ambulance, 12 years in surgery, you'd think I'd pick up on some sort of anatomical dog talk. I'd think. Right? Hell, I don't know...

There have been others.

I recently figured out who "Mommy" was kissing when she was kissing "Santa Claus".

I'm 35. Just put 2 and 2 together.

IT MAKES DADDY!!!!!

Then, there was this one time, I grabbed this book that looked awesome. So I read it in like, 4.2 hours. And I was going around telling everyone about it, how great it was, and, wow, you should READ THIS!!! It's a great story! You never want it to end!!! Have you read it??

The Thorn Birds?

No...nope, guys. NO. I did NOT know it was made into a wildly popular movie.

Oh well, it's all good. Makes life still interesting..

I got the Dog home from the Groomers. He smelled awesome, he looked good.

Husband still made fun of him. And as the Dog has no sense of personal space, he managed to get peed on his head by Boy as he was using the toilet. This happened 4 hours after we got home.

~B

My Name Is Becky, And I Own A Little Dog

I was thinking today of Zack. It's been a year since he died. Still makes my heart squeeze in a not so good way, and makes my stomach squishy when I think about him.

Of course, when he died, I wanted another dog immediately. Not to replace him, but I needed that dog-ness around. It was an ache. But I got vetoed.

Until July 3rd.

Everyone, except me, wanted a little dog. An ankle-biting, quivering, yipping inbred dog. And I've never really been a fan of that breed. At all. But, I wanted a dog, so I started the search. We (the boy and girl and myself) did vast web searches for the perfect dog. And we looked at a lot of little inbred dogs.

But I came across this video of this little spazzy dog.

And. I. Fell. In. Love.

Jet.

His name is Jet. And he was at a rescue in Poland, Indiana. Bring the jokes...buh-RING 'EM!!

We've actually deemed him a Polish Terrier just because we are tired of trying to explain what he is to all the other parents at obedience school. Husband has also determined him to be a Pubic Terrier as an homage to Jet's hair issue.

But...let's go back.

I drive the kids 2 1/2 hours away to Poland, dealt with customs and what-not, and picked the lil guy up. He was everything I never wanted in a little dog. I didn't want a little dog. But I wanted him. 300 bones for a rescue dog. Yeah, I know..wha???

9 pounds. Full grown at a year old.

It's like having a permanent newborn baby, except, you know..different.

We get home. The next 10 days and $200 in vet bills were spent dealing with Kennel Cough. We had no idea what kind of personality our PubicPolish Terrier had, as he slept. All the time. Jet was quite ill.

Day 10, the switch turned on. The BELL RANG! HE WAS HEALED!!!!

It was also gametime. We had a TERRIER!!

Some people call him "cute". I've heard "pitiful, but cute". And perhaps he looks a little rough. Husband just flat out calls Jet "ugly" TO HIS FACE!!! Everytime Husband does this I play "Beautiful" by Christina Aguielera just to build his esteem up from the "hater". But Jet has street cred. He did time in the pound, the humane society AND then the rescue. And he was only 1. Jet rocks. And he knows it. He OWNS it.

We're still working on manners.

Mostly..he likes to jump on your head eat chewies while sitting on you peeing pooping terrorizing the cat chewing things peeing pooping drinking out of toilet chewing the cat peeing pooping mopping the floor with the cat running from you chewing peeing pooping standing on tables peeing and pooping. But he's working on it.

His hair.

His hair issue requires...clothing. And once I started, I kind of had a hard time stopping. Because he wears his clothing SO well. Lil guy gets cold, so he owns a few jackets, a t-shirt for mild days, a Snuggie (just to irritate Husband) and then there is the pumpkin costume. Other than that...

He cries when the kids go to school all Lassie like. He loves ALL kids. A lot. We had a humping phase which prompted an "explanation" as to what "humping" is and that it is NOT "funny/cute".

Anyways...I know you don't all give a shit about A Girl And Her Dog...but I do. I think Zack would have just log-rolled him around, but he'd dig him.

My name is Becky..and I own a little dog.

Weird

So, it's about 20 minutes after putting the boy and girl to bed. They are like litter mates, and still sleep together most nights. Get over it.

Girl comes out to find me and starts talking :

Girl: So, mommy? I was just about to fall asleep, and as usual, weird things pop into my head. Scary things, and now I can't fall asleep, but I don't want to tell you about it.

At this point, 5,267 items that qualify as "weird/scary" come to my mind.

Me: Well, why don't you try to tell me, I swear it will make you feel better to get it out of your head.

Girl: Well, I don't feel comfortable telling you.

(I'm thinking now, of like 4,963 more things, wondering if I should have the police nearby, you know, to take a report)

Me: I think you should try, honey.

We spend the next 5 minutes in negotiations..

Girl: Well, ok. I know this is wrong, and I shouldn't be doing it..but. Well, sometimes at night, when the Boy falls asleep, I play with his face.

Me: Play with his face?

Girl: Yeah, you know, I squish his cheeks up, or I open his eyes up real big. I just make faces. And I KNOW it's wrong mommy. But sometimes I just do it.

Please trust me when I tell you the images in my head at this point are beyond hysterical, but also troubling.

Girl: And so, I was starting to fall asleep, and these pictures came to my head, you know, like when cartoon characters eyes get all BIG and RED and there are like, red LINES in their eyes. And I started thinking of Boy's eyes getting like that, and now I'm all freaked out.

Me:

Me: Ok, honey. Ok. I think you should at this point, go back to bed and lie there, thinking things like "Boy's body is his body". "Boy's face is not something to play with when he's sleeping".

And then I threw in the motherly..."You know, you could really hurt him by doing that". Just for guilt's sake.

Girl: I know, Mommy...I know...(as she's shaking her head, looking down). I know it's wrong, and I'm sorry, Mommy.

Me: Good luck to you, Girl. Sweet dreams!!!

So. I held it together. I don't even think I realized how weird and funny and awful it was. The poor boy, just dead to the world, as his sister is contorting his face in the dark.

Goes to show you, one can't assume what "weird" qualifies to a 9 year old girl. Weird is not screwing around with a sleeping boy's face at night. Weird is imagining his eyes going all bloodshot and cartoon-ey afterwards..