On a warm January day, we drove to a colleague's house to check out the remaining puppies of a large litter. I remember the sounds of the puppies yapping as they playfully bounded into the room, followed immediately by their mama. One lagged behind and tried to hide behind her brothers and sisters. This was Daisy, and I knew when I saw her that she was our dog.
Daisy was a shy puppy, but one look in those limpid brown eyes, and I was hooked. I thought of all types of grandiose, literary names for her, but after kicking them around, we decided her given name, Daisy, was fitting. Her puppy smell filled my car as we brought her home. She whimpered, and I thought she'd grow out of it, especially since she was leaving her family and joining a new one. Sadly, she's never grown out of whimpering, but now it means something else.
We were entranced by Daisy as she figured out our little house. Our son toddled after her, trying to pet her. In fact, one of my favorite pictures of the two of them is him sitting cross-legged with his arm over Daisy, who cuddled next to him. He's smiling, and she looks bewildered.
Daisy quickly taught us her quirks. For one, she hated her kennel. I know this because she would go to the bathroom in it, and then she'd move away from her mess until we came home. It took me a few weeks to decide that she was much better staying outside when we weren't home. She also liked chewing on wood and plastic. She ate our trash cans, wooden swing, trees, shrubs, and most all of our son's plastic toys. Once, she ate his bike helmet. Any new foliage had to have a protective fence around it. Daisy helped us understand that she's a social dog with other dogs; we learned this because she would bark all day at the dogs next door. Finally, we learned that Daisy didn't like dog food because she wouldn't eat it. We have spent years at vet offices, with them asking us if we regularly feed her. She was so underweight that we could see her ribs.
Ten months after we got her, after sleepless nights and destroyed objects, we decided we might need another dog to help her learn to be a dog. We adopted Jesse from the Dumb Friends' League. He came with his own baggage. First, he was grossly overweight and had been in shelters for several months. He was also a runner; open the door and he was gone. He was so strong, he could push fences out of his way to go exploring. Lastly, he was an eater. We had to take food away from him or he would gobble all of it up. He got in the trash, ate anything that was in the sink, and destroyed our garden, eating vegetables. He did, however, provide companionship for Daisy.
Daisy began to act better, probably because Jesse was such a naughty boy, and we enjoyed having the two dogs. Three years after we adopted Jesse, he developed diabetes, and within eight months, he died. I feared that Daisy would return to her frustrating behavior...urinating in the tub, eating Dixie cups, licking dental floss, digging in the yard, but she didn't. Instead, she has matured. She also eats dog food instead of wood or plastic.
She is now "my" dog. It's like having a baby, albeit a hairy and slightly smelly baby, all over again. She follows me everywhere, including the bathroom. She sleeps on my feet at night, and regardless of where I am, Daisy must be there too. We walk regularly, an activity we both enjoy. When I sit on the couch, Daisy must sit next to me. She camps and hikes with us too, mostly staying with me while my husband and son fish or do other activities. When I'm sick, Daisy is by my side. When I'm sad, Daisy is there with her head on me.
Daisy is now nearly seven and has outlived several of her siblings. I can tell she's slowing down a little, and when we play rope, she doesn't jump quite as high. She's also put on weight, so much that the vet wants her to gain no more weight. I enjoy her companionship. She's funny, sweet, loving, and fun-loving. I knew Daisy was meant for us, nearly seven years ago, and we were meant for her.
Who can resist limpid brown puppy eyes?
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Monday, August 13, 2012
The amazing journey of parenthood
Each morning my son staggers downstairs, his sleep-filled eyes finding the one person he momentarily needs: me. He throws his nine year old body onto me for our good morning hug, and then he's reeling around the kitchen, talking in his everychanging nine year old voice about his dreams, his sleep, and his day ahead. Usually, he's starving, and we begin our breakfast dance of what he can and cannot have until he is able to settle on an acceptable breakfast. Cereal. Each morning begins the same.
My son vacillates between maturity and childhood; he wants me to leave him alone, but he throws himself at me, hugging me, begging me not to go to work. He's done this for seven years, and I suspect he continues this routine to make me feel better about leaving. He knows I'd rather be with him. He likes to choose his own clothes but will still, occasionally, ask me if something matches. And then there are those days when he's in costume: navy blue t-shirt (often a size or two too small), black athletic shorts, white socks, brown hiking boots, a belt with a scabbard and a sword. People stare, but really, he's a child in a body the size of an 11 year old. He puts temporary tattoos all over his body; he looks like he's a hoodlum sometimes. He draws on himself, eats pencils and erasers, and infrequently listens to what I tell him.
But he's amazing. He reads long books, allowing the characters to live in his head for days at a time. He giggles at funny faces. He plays serious computer games that involve parking cars or riding skateboards over hills, talking all the while to himself. He lives in filth, laughing each time he's forced to clean up his room. He took initiative and great pride in decorating a notebook for school. We play silly games, like predicting what vehicle is next to drive down the street, but he writes thoughtful, mature and complex sentences for his vocabulary homework.
The other day he brought home an advertisement for the highly gifted program in his school district, announcing to me that he'd already read the document and that he fit most of the criteria to join the program. He asked me to recommend him. This is the same child who cries over homework being 'too hard.' The next day he announced he wants to be in the band as a drummer. His father was elated; I wondered where my headphones are hiding.
The world is open to my son at 9 years old. I hate to squelch any interests he has, which is why I find myself saying yes to drums, yes to applying for highly gifted, yes to library runs, and yes to karate. I remember laying on the bed, watching his baby self discover hands, feet, and mouth, and now he's discovering girls, music, and himself.
The journey of my parenthood has been an amazing adventure so far. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would find water on concrete fascinating, construction trucks mesmorizing, trash trucks exciting, or bugs interesting. Parenthood is another chance to live in magic, the world of pretend, to experience once again the joys of our world. My son, unknowingly, has changed me in unimaginable ways, and I'm so grateful to have the opportunity of this journey. Parenthood is the hardest, most enjoyable job I've ever had.
My son vacillates between maturity and childhood; he wants me to leave him alone, but he throws himself at me, hugging me, begging me not to go to work. He's done this for seven years, and I suspect he continues this routine to make me feel better about leaving. He knows I'd rather be with him. He likes to choose his own clothes but will still, occasionally, ask me if something matches. And then there are those days when he's in costume: navy blue t-shirt (often a size or two too small), black athletic shorts, white socks, brown hiking boots, a belt with a scabbard and a sword. People stare, but really, he's a child in a body the size of an 11 year old. He puts temporary tattoos all over his body; he looks like he's a hoodlum sometimes. He draws on himself, eats pencils and erasers, and infrequently listens to what I tell him.
But he's amazing. He reads long books, allowing the characters to live in his head for days at a time. He giggles at funny faces. He plays serious computer games that involve parking cars or riding skateboards over hills, talking all the while to himself. He lives in filth, laughing each time he's forced to clean up his room. He took initiative and great pride in decorating a notebook for school. We play silly games, like predicting what vehicle is next to drive down the street, but he writes thoughtful, mature and complex sentences for his vocabulary homework.
The other day he brought home an advertisement for the highly gifted program in his school district, announcing to me that he'd already read the document and that he fit most of the criteria to join the program. He asked me to recommend him. This is the same child who cries over homework being 'too hard.' The next day he announced he wants to be in the band as a drummer. His father was elated; I wondered where my headphones are hiding.
The world is open to my son at 9 years old. I hate to squelch any interests he has, which is why I find myself saying yes to drums, yes to applying for highly gifted, yes to library runs, and yes to karate. I remember laying on the bed, watching his baby self discover hands, feet, and mouth, and now he's discovering girls, music, and himself.
The journey of my parenthood has been an amazing adventure so far. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would find water on concrete fascinating, construction trucks mesmorizing, trash trucks exciting, or bugs interesting. Parenthood is another chance to live in magic, the world of pretend, to experience once again the joys of our world. My son, unknowingly, has changed me in unimaginable ways, and I'm so grateful to have the opportunity of this journey. Parenthood is the hardest, most enjoyable job I've ever had.
Heavy heart
Tonight my heart is heavy, overflowing, toilet-like, with emotion. I think of my absent family....my nana, my mom, my Aunt Edie, and I find that I miss them terribly. As I mourn their passing, I mourn for myself, for what I've lost. Stories, family history, love. And while these memories live within my mind and my heart, I'd rather have my loved ones with me.
My heart is heavy as I think of former students whose names and faces rattle around in my memory. Snippets of our times together flash before me, making me smile or frown, feeding my soul, reminding me why I teach. I watched a former student perform with his rappapella group, tears welling in my eyes as I listened to the beauty of his words and voice, remembering his warm smile and way with words.
So many people have drifted in and out of my life over the years, and their spectres weigh on me. My heart is heavy, overflowing, emotional, wishing for what I can't have, remembering what has passed. I feel old tonight. Alone. Burdened by what has been. Struggling to look toward what might be. Realizing how many lives I've touched and how my life has been touched by the students I've taught. Knowing they don't remember me, but I remember them.
My losses feel great, overwhelming, and I feel adrift with pictures and voices rattling around in my head. Each of my students leave a fingerprint on my heart, and I'm sad and happy, knowing for a brief moment our lives crossed, we became different people because of this moment, this time together, and then they're gone. As they should.
My heart is heavy as I think of former students whose names and faces rattle around in my memory. Snippets of our times together flash before me, making me smile or frown, feeding my soul, reminding me why I teach. I watched a former student perform with his rappapella group, tears welling in my eyes as I listened to the beauty of his words and voice, remembering his warm smile and way with words.
So many people have drifted in and out of my life over the years, and their spectres weigh on me. My heart is heavy, overflowing, emotional, wishing for what I can't have, remembering what has passed. I feel old tonight. Alone. Burdened by what has been. Struggling to look toward what might be. Realizing how many lives I've touched and how my life has been touched by the students I've taught. Knowing they don't remember me, but I remember them.
My losses feel great, overwhelming, and I feel adrift with pictures and voices rattling around in my head. Each of my students leave a fingerprint on my heart, and I'm sad and happy, knowing for a brief moment our lives crossed, we became different people because of this moment, this time together, and then they're gone. As they should.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Finding a lump
Today is a do-nothing day, not because there isn't anything to do but because I'm anxiously awaiting a phone call, much like a teenaged girl, to schedule a mammogram.
Normally, I'd go about my day, not worrying about something like missing a scheduling phone call, but I've found a lump in my breast and my doctor felt it too. Could be nothing. But with my family history of breast cysts and breast cancer, I can't afford to blow this off.
I'm not panicked, at least not yet. Granted, it's been nearly 11 years since my mom found her own breast lump, and only she panicked then. My lump feels about the same size as hers, but it's in a different spot. Most breast cancer survivors describe their lumps as pea-sized and hard, but my mom's was large and squooshy, like a cyst. It wasn't until the diagnosis of breast cancer did we all panic a bit for my mom.
Today is a do-nothing day because I'm in limbo, awaiting an appointment that could change my life. I feel immobilized until I get the call, and I have no motivation to leave the house. I keep trying the idea of positive thought, as in, there's no way I can have breast cancer at 44. But really, anything is possible. For awhile, I wanted to bury my face in a tub of ice cream, but instead, I went and took a nap. Ice cream won't help me feel better in the long run.
The worst part is the fact I have no one to call and discuss this with. The person I would have called, my mom, is gone. There's no one else I want to talk to. I feel like I'm doing this alone.
Today, I miss my mom.
Normally, I'd go about my day, not worrying about something like missing a scheduling phone call, but I've found a lump in my breast and my doctor felt it too. Could be nothing. But with my family history of breast cysts and breast cancer, I can't afford to blow this off.
I'm not panicked, at least not yet. Granted, it's been nearly 11 years since my mom found her own breast lump, and only she panicked then. My lump feels about the same size as hers, but it's in a different spot. Most breast cancer survivors describe their lumps as pea-sized and hard, but my mom's was large and squooshy, like a cyst. It wasn't until the diagnosis of breast cancer did we all panic a bit for my mom.
Today is a do-nothing day because I'm in limbo, awaiting an appointment that could change my life. I feel immobilized until I get the call, and I have no motivation to leave the house. I keep trying the idea of positive thought, as in, there's no way I can have breast cancer at 44. But really, anything is possible. For awhile, I wanted to bury my face in a tub of ice cream, but instead, I went and took a nap. Ice cream won't help me feel better in the long run.
The worst part is the fact I have no one to call and discuss this with. The person I would have called, my mom, is gone. There's no one else I want to talk to. I feel like I'm doing this alone.
Today, I miss my mom.
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