Awesome

 

I am not at all upset with the very nice folks at The Flying Cupcake. I am upset with the nasty super cell that passed through Indianapolis last night and knocked out their power.

Two dozen jumbo cupcakes with yellow, orange and green sprinkles down the tubes. Cause you know, you can't make cupcakes -- or Madagascar vanilla frosting! -- without power.

Damn super cell...

Long morning already

Sara and I are staying at my sister's during demolition. We're sharing a room, so the days start early.

Today she had me up at 7:30 -- not all that bad, all things considered. Here is my experience thus far, a mere 45 minutes into the day.

I hear: "Mama, are you up? Are you all done sleeping? Are you all done sleeping? Mama? Hi Mama. You get up now? You put your pants on. Mama, I all poopie. I poopie Mama. I all poopie. I go potty. Mama, I need to go potty."

I see: Ink pen scribbles. All over her body. From her nose to her toes. I don't know exactly when or how she got the pen.

I feel: The world's heaviest, wettest diaper. But no poopie. I put her on the potty and throw away the wet diaper.

I hear: "MAAAAAAAAMAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!! I ALL DONE GOING POOOOOTTTTTTYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!! MMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I see: Sara climbing up on the dining room table and helping herself to some 2-day-old doughnuts.

I feel: My heavy eyelids, begging me to get back into bed.

I hear: A string of beads clanking on the hardwood floors.

I hear: "Mama, may I have some cho-ma-milk?" "Ank you."

I see: Two sippy cups on the window sill, one blue & one orange.

I hear: "May I have the orange one? Anks."

I feel: Sara stepping on my toes.

I hear: More bead clanking.

I see: Sara holding the beads behind her, at the small of her back.

I hear: "I have a long long tail! Like a kitty!" (Seriously? Does a two-year-old say stuff like that??)

I feel: Exhausted already.

I hear: "MAMA I WANNA COLOR" (coming from another room)

I see: Sara rummaging through something to pull out a coloring book and a 96-pack of Crayolas my sister has bought. I set her up in her booster chair and breathe a sigh of relief that she is contained for 2 minutes.

I hear: The sound of 96 crayons hitting the table. And the first one being broken in half.

I feel: Like a schmuck. I should have known better.

I smell: Trouble. It's going to be a long, long day.

Gentlemen, start your demo!

Demolition is well underway. Thought I'd give you a little window into our world!

Credit where credit is due

Hey!  My very creative and talented friend Amy made this new blog header for me.  I love it!  It pretty much sums me up.  :)

Check out her website here.

Thanks Amy!

I know I'm 37 but I still sort of want one

These might be the cutest things I've ever seen.  Seriously.

My life as a Def Leppard hit

The walls are tumbling down. Literally. As I type this, I see the bare studs of the bedroom walls and feel the grit of plaster dust on the keyboard. Ah yes, it is grand.

I am not complaining for a minute, FYI.

Still, construction adds a whole new dimension to day-to-day living: Most rooms are an obstacle course. I routinely find building materials on my dining room table, kitchen counter, and bathroom vanity. And the dust? Well... it permeates.

In order to self-medicate my way through the process I have spent countless hours online Googling any number of household improvements. If you'd like an opinion on kitchen appliances, countertop options, or replacement windows just give me a buzz. I'm still reading up on whirlpool tubs and stamped concrete though, so if you'd like my take on those you're just going to have to wait.

Oh -- and on a completely unrelated note, my incredibly talented friend Elaine has posted some of my handiwork on her blog. Dig me! I'm creative! (And thanks, Elaine, for the very nice comments. You're not too shabby yourself.)

No news

I haven't really got a blessed thing to say, though I'm sure I'll spend a few hundred words here saying it. The father-in-law is coming Monday and I will admit to being mighty excited about the work that's going to get done after he arrives. Rob has finals tomorrow and I have to admit to being mighty excited about the work that's going to get done after he's finished with school.

Sara's great. She's taken to saying "Hey Mama! Guess what! It's ________ time!" You can fill in the blank with whatever she's jonesing for at the time: Dora, dinner, bath, snack, whatever. It's pretty funny. Isn't she a cutie? (I think so.)

I took today & tomorrow off from work -- simply because I can, which is a novelty for me. I spent the morning outside with Sara, drinking a lot of coffee, wandering the perimeter of the house thinking we should do this or that & trying to imagine how it's all going to look when it's done. Spent a fair amount of time pushing Sara on her "red one" (her red swing, not to be confused with Oscar's "green one" a couple houses down) and examining all varieties of rocks that she put on the bench next to me. We also fed the birds, which Sara very politely announced to the robin hopping along our front walk: "We go get you lunch now, OK bird?" I assume he gave her the all-clear because we filled up the feeder in short order.

It was a good day, with time spent outside & in, drawing pictures of Sara and Mam and Papa and Aunt Pants on the MagnaDoodle, lunch at MCL -- where she insisted on wearing her striped, newborn fleecy jester hat throughout the meal, thank you very much -- and a nice nap so Mama could clean the bathroom & get dinner ready. There was a nice rhythm to the day, not too busy, not to slow, just right.

Ah, for more of these. Someday. I know it will come.

For now, back to work. There's laundry to do and a bedroom to prepare for Rich. Can't wait to see what tomorrow brings!

Pastoral symphony*

We three went to Traders Point Creamery this morning. Despite the grey skies, threat of rain, and slight nip in the air, it was just about the perfect morning -- in fact, that maybe why it was the perfect morning.

I know TPC isn't a new discovery, but for our family it was a first. There was some competition for parking spots, which didn't give me very high hopes, but in the end our trip there was just right. We did some initial scoping of the place and didn't bring a lot of cash so there wasn't a big temptation to buy a lot of stuff we wouldn't end up using. We did get some locally-roasted coffee and I bought a small loaf of cherry bread from a mighty precious old farmer... when I asked him which kind of bread was his favorite, he admitted that everything he brought was his favorite. How could I pass him up?

Next time we'll come better financed and prepared to try some of the locally-grown, organically-raised produce. I love the idea of this and am slowly making some steps toward incorporating these concepts into our buying habits. In fact, before I started this post I was Googling to find some sources for canning and freezing our own harvest for next year.

Sara was, of course, instantly in love with the place and spent a fair amount of time trying to catch and hug the chickens -- she wasn't succcessful, but this didn't seem to faze her. There were also a couple of cats roaming the grounds, with which she was instantly smitten. Not exactly "barn cats" and not exactly "house cats," they were freindly enough to be offended when we passed them by without the obligatory pat and possesive enough of the place to keep their eyes on us when we wandered out into the field. It was nice, since everyone else was in the barn at the market and we pretty much had the grounds to ourselves. And the occasional "cock-a-doodle-do" was really the icing on the cake.

It was one of those mornings I always imagine us having, the three of us together enjoying the fresh air and having enough time and space to let Sara have the independence she needs while Rob and I can spend a few minutes talking and walking and not worrying about her. There was an energy in the air, a mix of stormy weather and Saturday-morning anticipation that I find both invigorating and relaxing. We were in the city yet enjoying the pastoral setting, all at the same time. I'm not sure how it gets much better.

I love these accidental realizations of my imagination. They're so rare -- but I wonder how much more frequently they might occur if I just let life unfold rather than spending my time and energy trying to engineer "the ideal." It never works anyway. Good thing I've finally realized that, because it sure makes living a lot easier. It kind of give the concept of "going organic" a whole new meaning.


*The Pastoral Symphony is one of my favorite sections of "The Messiah." It's actually what was played (on a harp no less!) when I walked down the aisle at our wedding. If you're familiar with it, today was sort of a real-life expression of how I internalize the music: a simple melody gently carrying you forward to the next movement. Kind of makes me wonder what life's "next movement" will be.

Rock my world

I can honestly say that I've never been woken up by an earthquake. I'm sure my friends out west are laughing at us right now (much like we do when their interstate traffic comes to a halt after a light dusting of snow), but I'm here to tell you -- it's a little creepy. The bed was shaking, the walls were rumbling, the windows were rattling... my first thought was "what the hell is Rob doing now?!?," but then I realized he was just as confused as I was.

Here's the creepiest part: Riley is currently undergoing a fairly major addition to the hospital and, off and on all this week, we have felt the rhythmic vibrations of jackhammers or excavation or I don't know what. My desk vibrates, my coffee sloshes in it's cup... you get the idea. Just a few minutes ago we had what I assume is an aftershock. To be honest, it's kind of hard to tell the difference between the jackhammering and the earthquaking -- except that Rob just called me to ask how "construction" was going. And I have to say: Being in the basement of a six-floor hosptial during construction AND earthquake activity? Yeah, not so much.

I'm telling you, if our patients start speaking in tongues I'm out of here. Of course, it might be a little difficult to say if they're actually speaking in tongues or just here for therapy... So, scratch the tongues. But if I see swarms of locusts or floods or the dead rising from the grave? Then I'm out of here.

There's no place like home

My mom used to tell me how she frequenly felt like a second-class citizen when people would ask her what she "did" and she would tell them that she was a house wife. It was the seventies, you know, and she was supposed to be burning her bra and blazing career trails.

Well, whatever. Now it's thirty years later and I've got the career and the new promotion, and really what my soul is thirsty for is the life my mom led. I'm a house wife trapped in the professional world. Crazy, isn't it?

I don't think "house wife" is the right term anymore... I personally think that "home-making" is a much better descriptor, because that is what it's really all about. Now, my mom was no neatnik -- NOT EVEN CLOSE. And she didn't get me up every morning for a hot breakfast, or make sure all my clothes were ironed and laid out the night before. So what did she do? Well, she made our home. She shaped what was important to us (and not), created our traditions, and above all made sure we felt loved. And we did.

Before I get the certain responses that lots of women have careers and a fulfilling home life, let me just say that I understand that it's possible. At least to some degree, it's possible -- but it's really proving to be impossible for me. My attempts and creating the home life I want and the work life I require has left me falling short on every front. And let me tell you, that is a lousy place to be.

Hey, I know I have all sorts of pie-in-the-sky ideas about what being a home-maker would be like. A lot of it is romanticized nonsense but I also know it would really be the best gift I could give to Rob, Sara, and myself. The creativity that I love and that keeps me sane (designing, scrapbooking, stenciling, photography, writing, singing, gardening, cooking, painting -- walls, not canvases!) isn't marketable. I know that there are those whose talent is extraordinary, and mine isn't. And that's really OK with me. But my family would benefit from it, and I could have the joy of shaping our lives and creating our traditions and making sure they feel loved.

That is SO what I want to be about. It's still not popular, it doesn't move us up the socioeconomic totem pole, and some (perhaps reckless) pundits have even suggested that it's "dangerous." Well, whatever! I'm no more interested in burning my bra or blazing career trails than my mother was. In fact, that path seems to lead inevitably to failure for me and my family.

So here's hoping I can be a new kind of trail-blazer, back to where my mother came from. I really can't wait to get there.

So I was sobbing

CJ and Sharon are really doing it: They're tearing down the old lake cottage and building new. We are all really excited and can't wait until it's done. It will be year-round now, and will have lots of room for lots of people. They've been talking about it and planning for it for months now and we're all so looking forward to it. It will be great.

So I was a little surprised to find myself sobbing the other night as I looked through the pictures Sharon sent of the place now that they've cleared everything out for demolition. It's a sad little thing, tired and literally decaying from some 40 years of use. My dad built it -- almost everything, except the block, he did himself. It is small (funny how it never seemed all that small when I was a kid) and we outgrew it forever ago. There was no air conditioner, no washer or dryer, and for the longest time no phone. It smelled "lakey" and was definitely not immune to bugs. In the last few years, to be perfectly honest, it was a lot of work just to be there.

But oh my gosh -- I cried and cried as I looked at those pictures. She wasn't in the photos but I could see Mom standing behind the island in the kitchen, putting out food for whatever crowd happened to be there that day and filling newcomers in on the house rules: she would show you where everything was, but after that you were on your own -- and no wet bathing suits on the sofa! I could see Dad sitting at the picnic table reading the Sunday paper early in the morning before the boats started up and it was so quiet you could hear every squirrel on the roof and every woodpecker in the cove.

They were both so proud of the place and loved sharing it with everybody -- literally, everybody. It didn't matter if they had known you for 5 minutes or 50 years, you were welcome to enjoy everything the lake had to offer. Mom would keep you well fed and supplied with dry towels (and don't forget to hang them up, because she wasn't doing it for you!) and Dad would pull you behind the boat for an hour if that's what it took to get you up on skis. No screaming allowed and kids had to wear life jackets. That was about it. All you were asked to do was have a good time.

I can't tell you how many weeks, or more likely months, I spent down there with Mom. We all but lived there in the summer. I don't remember what all we did, but I remember I hated coming home. We practically had the whole lake to ourselves -- and I had Mom all to myself, too. Some of my best memories of her are from summers at the lake. I'd love to do that with Sara some day, too. (Some day.)

So yes, I was sobbing. I'm sure I will again. Part of me wants to go down there, one more time, just to say goodbye to the place: smell the lakey smell, stand behind the island and look out at the lake like Mom did, sit at the picnic table some quiet early morning like Dad and just listen and remember. But I won't. I don't need to -- I'm doing it right now. Kind of like everything else with Mom and Dad, the blessing and the curse is that I'll never get to see them again, but I meet with them all the time in my memory.

This time, no promises

Ah, the time has come again to consider my weight dilemma. Or crisis. Crisis is probably more accurate.

This time I'm having an incredibly hard time committing to anything. It's been a lifetime of enthusiastic commitment followed, at some point, by giving up and then gaining it all back (plus a little more for good measure). I really, truly, feel defeated and suspect that defeat is the one thing that is going to guarantee my failure.

Rock, meet hard place.

The thing is that I have more reason than ever to figure it all out. Every day I spend with Sara is confimation that life is SO worth living and living for a long, long time -- every day to the fullest. Cornball as it sounds I believe it. And yet I'm still left with my dilemma, and no amount of cold-hard logic or very real concern for my health seems to take an edge off the defeat.

So this time around I'm not fooling myself, not promising myself that I'm going to knock this off my to-do list like the laundry or paying bills. Chances are I'll never lose all the weight I need to lose -- but right now, I'd be happy with just some. Just something to make life a little easier, my step a little faster, my knees a little stronger, my hope a tiny bit brighter. I'm taking baby steps and the first one is just being aware. You skinnies out there probably never realized that some of us aren't even aware of what we're eating -- or maybe you don't have to be because you were blessed with good genes and a great metabolism. But for some of us it takes a real effort to think about what we're eating, what it's doing to us/for us, and why we're eating it.

And let me tell you, it IS an effort.

That's my goal right now. Being aware. Being present everytime I put something in my mouth and making a conscious decision about why I will - or won't - do it. It's hard. Maybe harder than weighing and measuring and keeping a food diary and coming off sugar. I don't know, because I've never really done it before.

Anyway that's where I am. I don't want you to question me the next time we have lunch together or take a mental inventory of what I'm eating. Really, you don't have to do anything except try to understand.

My quest to be aware has taken me back to my old friend, the Cooking Light website. This is what I made for dinner last night (along with some stuffing & tasty roasted asparagus) and by all accounts it was very very tasty. And for you cooks out there -- also SO fast & easy. No joke. I hope you like it!

Not sure what comes next, but I think awareness is going to keep me busy for awhile. Maybe Rob, Sara & I can make yesterday's afternoon walk a daily event. Not exactly a workout, but certainly better than sitting on my butt watching the Food Network. Ah, the irony...

We'll see. And I'll keep you posted.

Saturday morning sound bites

The beauty of most Saturdays is that Rob lets me sleep in. Usually that means I'm up at 7:30 or 8:00 (which he doesn't understand as "sleeping in"), but this morning I was up just before nine.

Last night we managed to get a sitter and go out for the evening. Feeling quite proud of ourselves we went to a relatively nice place for dinner (no trays, mascots, or waiters singing "Happy Birthday" in sight) and I ordered myself a Lemondrop. A nice idea in theory, until I woke up this morning at 6:30 with a pounding headache. Four Advil later and I was back in bed.

When I rolled out two and a half hours later the headache was mostly gone, just that whisper to remind you that you best not get cocky cause it could come back any minute. I sat on the edge of the bed to weigh my options: try to sleep it off entirely or push through and hope for the best?

That's when I heard Rob and Sara downstairs. And it went something like this:

S: (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp)
R: "Sara Hope NO! We do NOT touch knives! (unintelligible mumbling)"
S: (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp) "A, B C, D, E, F, Geeeeeeeeeeeeee, H, I J, K, na na na na na na na...." (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp)
R: "Sara Hope NO!! Get away from the stove!"
S: (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp) "(unintelligible happy sounds)"
R: "Ba-Boom! You're OK."
S: "(indiscriminate whine)" (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp)
R: "Sara Hope come back here."
S: (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp)
S: (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp)
R: "Sara, I have oranges!"
S: (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp) "Mmmmmmmmmmmm....." (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp)
R: "Sara come HERE. Mama's sleeping."
S: (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp) "Mama? I go SEE Mama." (clomp clomp clomp clomp clomp)
R: "No Sara, come BACK here!"

And so it went.

I opted to hang out upstairs for a few minutes to see which direction my headache was going to turn before I jumped into the fray. Rob just brought up some coffee and when I asked him how they were doing he said "Um, OK." That was when Sara started up the stairs to see what she was missing.

God love him, he told her I was still asleep. He's such a nice man.

As for me, I think I'll fish out a couple more Advil, take a nice hot shower & then give him some relief. But I have to say, I've been enjoying the show. Those two.... peas in a pod. How I wound up as the Mama Bear of this crew is a mystery to me.

My Book About Me: Volume II

I remember my mom giving me this book when I was a kid and now I wish I knew what had happened to it.


Somehow along the way I turned 37. Now, I don't feel old. I don't really think I'm old. But the 6-year-old in me that filled out her "My Book about Me, by ME, Myself" really thinks that this 37 year old woman is ancient -- and really ought to know who she is, thank you very much.


I hate sounding like a whiny middle-aged woman having an identity crisis. In fact just seeing those words on the screen makes me cringe. The truth is this isn't a new identity crisis -- I've always had it. Probably always will. But that doesn't mean I have to like it, right?

I am awed by people who seem to know, or at least eventually figure out, who they are. I don't mean what they do -- cause really, come on. But I have friends who are Writers and Artists and Photographers and Speech Pathologists and Mothers and that is who they are. They have true gifts and passions. It's not work to them (or not always). They really appear to love what they do and they do it well.


I don't get it.


I have heard the talk about "spiritual gifts" and let me tell you: evidently, I came to the party late cause I seem to have left empty-handed: Administration? Don't tell my boss, but not-so-much. Exhortation? I don't think I know what it means so that would be a no as well. Teaching? Um, I'm a card-carrying member of the "Never taught despite my education degree" club. Encouragement? No. Mercy? Uh, NO. Pastoring, evangelizing, prophseying? No, no, and no again.


Look, I'm not fishing for compliments here, I just really don't see it. And it doesn't have to be limited to spiritual gifts (though this seems a noble cause worth pursuing) -- I don't feel especially gifted in anything. "Jack of all trades, master of none." And maybe that's OK. Just feels less than overwhelming. You know?


So, I either haven't figured it out or haven't stumbled across it, I'm not sure which. Or maybe it just is what it is. But it seems like I always expect something better to come down the pike, but I inevitably make a wrong turn (or wrong decision) that keeps me from ME. I'm not unhappy, just a little bit lost. Waiting to figure out whatever It is that I am.


The six-year-old is getting impatient. I'm not sure what to tell her. Maybe I should go get another book and start from scratch, or better yet, Sara and I could do ours together.


Not a bad idea, really...

Wait, I just thought of something. I know a lot of words. Not like in a freaky-deaky Scrabble champion kind of way, but you know -- in that way where I feel compelled to use exactly the right word kind of way. That way that alienates people because they think you think you're superior to them.


Now that's a helpful skill. I'm sure I'll sleep better tonight.

ADDENDUM: My husband said he felt bad for me when he read this. He thinks I sound depressed. Rest assured, I don't feel bad about this or depressed. Anticipatory maybe, or confused or I don't know what. But not depressed.

Thursday night catechism

There's this CD that I put on for Sara every night. Scattered throughout are various "nature" sounds -- rain, water, birds, stuff like that. After a little section with birds chirping, I told Sara about how her Grandma really liked birds. She liked how colorful they were, and how they sang, and how they hopped around. She liked to feed them and watch them. And then Sara said "I feed birds." And I told her yes, that we could feed the birds too.

And then she asked, "Where Grandma?"


Now this is not new territory. When Dad died I told her that he had gone to heaven to live with God and Jesus and Grandma, and so we've talked lots of times about where Grandma and Grandpa live. So I asked her: "Where does Grandma live?"

And she said, "Heaben."


So I told her yes, Grandma lives in heaven with Grandpa and God and Jesus.


A couple of minutes pass and she said "Where God?"


Hmmm. What would that two-year-old mind make of this? "Well, God lives in heaven. But it's kind of tricky, because He's here, too. He's everywhere. He lives in our hearts and He's always with us. We can't see Him but if we listen we can hear Him, and we can feel Him too."


To which she said, "God in heaben."


"Yep, God's in heaven and here and everywhere."


There was this little pause, and I thought the conversation was over. But then I hear her little voice, and it's obvious she's been thinking about what I've said.


"Tricky."



Tricky, indeed.

LOL -- and I don't do that

So you have to go here and see this post. The video is funny and disturbing and mind-bending. The commentary is hilarious.

(FYI, the blogger is a friend of my sister's and his posts have had me LOLing more than once. LOLing -- I'm pretty sure that's not a word. But then again neither is LOL so there you go.

Anyway, he also happens to be a nice guy. He dutifully laughed at Sara during Easter dinner and felt free to give me some digs on my not-so-hot home-made hot-cross-buns. I respect that.)

on my mind these days...

...is this house going to be TOO big?

...why do you always end up getting the shaft at work?

...yeah, i really need to figure out how to get healthy

...oh, to have the time to craft all i wanted!

...the career: white-knuckling it til the end

...can't get enough of my girl/will someone come take her, please?

...wish i was a snappier blogger.

...sick and tired of feeling sick and tired

...i've really got to get to bed earlier...

(It worked, FYI)

Mike Spencer said...

How many conversations have started that way? I wonder....

Anyway, Mike Spencer once said that it might be helpful for me to write things down. This suggestion happened to be in relation to thoughts about my parent's deaths and how at times I just seem to relive certain moments that, quite honestly, I'd rather not relive. His thinking was that by writing these thoughts down I could sort of put them somewhere so I didn't have to keep processing them. At least that's how I interpreted what he said.

Well, I bought a little orange notebook to use for just that purpose. I now use it to take down dimensions and stock numbers of appliances that Rob and I think we might like for our new kitchen. I had good intentions about using it for the original purpose, but really it's perilously close to "journaling," and that's just not something I do.

Except then I realized that that's pretty much exactly what I do on this stupid blog.

Anyway, all of that to say that I had an experience this weekend that I need to put somewhere so I can stop reliving it in my head.

Most people know that I am not really a dog person. I don't dislike dogs -- in fact at times I kind of want a dog -- but I am not especially drawn to them. In particular I am not a fan of large dogs. OK: at the core of it, I'm afraid of them. Not big loopy goofy happy dogs like Labs but Big Dogs That Mean Business. I don't trust them. I know that, at the end of the day, they are animals. And even with the greatest cat in the world (mine of course), at the end of the day he is still an animal and you never know for sure what an animal will do.

So, now you know my thing about dogs -- and I'm sure you can imagine where this is going.

This weekend we went out to Philly for the memorial service of one of Rob's great-uncles. We stayed with the in-laws, as usual, as well as their akita. (An akita, in case you are unfamiliar with the breed, is a Big Dog That Means Business.) I am able to function reasonably well around the dog -- we aren't friends per se, but we co-exist. Sara, on the other hand, loves anything furry with a tail and has no fear whatsoever of the Big Dog and so I am terrified for her. The Big Dog is intrigued, perplexed, puzzled, probably somewhat annoyed by Sara but for the most part doesn't get much past sniffing her. A couple of times -- and always without provocation -- he growled at her and I flashed my Mommy armor, though every time I was reassured that it was nothing, he is just jealous of the attention he was losing to Sara, he was startled, etc. He needed to get used to her, come to think of her as family and then he would protect her.

And then it happened. I knew it would, could sense it coming. The Mama instinct in me could see it and feel it and was completely powerless to stop it. The Big Dog bit her. On the face. And there was blood.

It's funny because at the time I was probably the most composed person there. Sara, of course, was scared and wailing. Rob was furious. My mother-in-law was crying. I just wanted my daughter to be OK and, after a few minutes, she was. I consoled my mother-in-law, calmed my husband, and kept feeding Sara ice cubes and bacon. The dust settled. The dog went outside and will never have contact with Sara again.

It's done.

But it's not, because all night and all morning the only thing I see in my mind's eye is the Big Dog going after her again, only this time he doesn't stop. He's vicious, and Sara is bleeding but not crying, and I'm scared to death that it's gone too far.

I keep telling myself that it didn't happen that way and that now there is no chance that it ever will. But that doesn't stop my mind from going there, and the scars on her face just remind me over & over & over what could have been.

Here's hoping that this post puts the nightmare to rest.

Getting going

I'm having a hard time of it today.

Actually it started last night... I had to keep reminding myself that it was THURSDAY and yes indeed I did have one more day to go.

So this morning I was only sort of shocked when the alarm went off. And then this is what I had to leave behind when I came to work:




Seriously?? I could eat her up. It's not many girls, you know, who can pull off a sparkly pink boa with grizzly bear jammies. I'm just saying.