Glen left for Newark about 30 minutes ago, and already my suggested plans for the day have been panned by a pretty tough audience, led by a seven-year-old.
Disneyland? "Nope."
The Kids Club at the Claremont Club? "Boring!"
Victoria Gardens to ride the choo-choo train? "Meh."
More notable to me than being rejected at every turn is my befuddlement about my own restlessness. I was raised in a home where idleness and loafing around was not only discouraged, but rarely happened. My mom was not the type to spend Sunday morning in her jammies (which, gentle reader, the author of this blog is currently doing). To the contrary, there was always something to do, projects to be completed, homework to research, weeds to pull, groceries to buy, or parties to plan. While it was not necessarily uncommon for John, Julie, and me to park ourselves in front of the television to watch classic Warner Bros. cartoons, mom was disinclined to join us. In fact, she never did.
So it should come as no surprise to me that I find myself on this gorgeous Sunday morning, itching to leave the house and just "do something." And the kids would very much prefer that I drop everything and just watch them play and do crazy things with their stuffed animals ... or, better yet, join in the fun.
Why I find it so difficult to sit back, relax, and watch them do what they do best - be kids - is somewhat puzzling to me. This is something that Glen excels at. Mind you, I have no problem with giving them unrestricted play time; it's just that I am not very good at being their audience while they do so, and lately they are very, very interested in making sure that I pay careful attention to their activities, be it building Lego, setting up play scenarios with Barbie dolls, or role playing with stuffed tigers and elephants. I confess that I'd rather hole up in the office and web browse. You know, do my thing.
For now, the kids are pretty content being home bodies. They've taken most of the pillows and quilts off of their beds and created a cushy fort at the landing of the stairs. They have unburied the small Spider Man Happy Meal toy that was stored under David's captain's bed. Elizabeth has already had two wardrobe changes. The tea party/breakfast that we had in her room this morning is all cleaned up. David is content in his Kung Fu Panda pajamas. Elizabeth is unpacking her Fisher Price Little People. And "Sponge Bob Square Pants" is playing in the background.
I know pretty soon that David and Elizabeth will be hinting that it's time to go outside to ride bikes. On such a beautiful Southern California day, I'd be a dope to discourage this. I guess it's time to pull on a pair of jeans and tennis shoes.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Alone at last
Per the title of this particular blog post, I'm not so sure that it's totally a good thing.
My work at HMC has taken me to St. Petersburg, FL, for a two-day meeting having to do with one of the many National Science Foundation (NSF) grants that HMC faculty have. This particular grant is overseen by a team of faculty members in our Computer Science department, and I serve as the "evaluator" for the program. In simple terms, that means I work with the faculty to come up with ways to make sure that the goals of their funded project are actually being met.
Each year, those of us who have earned the lofty title of "evaluator" for this particular NSF project gather to discuss various and sundry things. I will confess that, being somewhat of an NSF rookie, the topics discussed are often beyond me. They go "whoosh!" right over my head.
Last year, the evaluator's meeting was in Arlington, VA, and I had to catch a red eye out of LAX to get to the meeting, as there was no way on earth that I was going to miss Elizabeth's birthday party the day before.
This year, we're being treated to the somewhat warmer climes of Florida. I am holed up at the Renaissance Vinoy Hotel, somewhere along the harbor. This was not my original destination, however. The Hilton at which I had reservations kindly informed me that they were overbooked, but that they had "good news and great news" for me: my first night's reservation was on the house, and that for the first night I'd be staying at the lovely, historic, charming (read: OLD) Vinoy Hotel. This, of course, was dropped on my after finally figuring out that the first Hilton Hotel I stumbled upon in St. Petersburg was not the right one; curse you, Hertz Rent-a-Car "Never Lost" system!
I am sure as you can see from the photo (above) that any resemblance between the Renaissance Vinoy and the Sheraton Royal Hawaiian Hotel (a.k.a., "The Pink Palace) is purely coincidental. Alarming, but coincidental.
Now that I'm settled in my room, and have nothing better to do than to watch over-priced movies on the in-room entertainment system, browse the web, eat junk food, and post my musing on my blog, I find that I am very lonely. I do not envy Glen's being away from David and Elizabeth on most week days. I'm sure he doesn't find it to be a walk in the park, either.
But while I do welcome the quiet, the respite, the intellectual exchanges that I'll be having with colleagues from other institutions, and the ability to sleep undisturbed so as to shake off this lingering cold that I've had, I really miss my tribe. David was wide awake as I left for Ontario Airport at the crack of dark this morning, but Elizabeth was tucked warmly in her cozy bed. I lingered over her for just a few extra seconds as I kissed her very soft cheek and stroked her very soft hair. She was out cold, but the picture of sleepy perfection.
I know for a fact, and beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the kids are having a high old time with Glen. My husband - my hero - shepherded the troupe through the morning routine with the skill of a seasoned professional; add into the mix the additional stop at the veterinarian's office so that Lager (the Lab) could get his teeth cleaned, and one can surmise that Glen had a very busy morning. Not to worry. He's a champ. His evening report to me was that all went swimmingly, despite the fact that Lager had to have four teeth pulled, further evidence of our negligence in the canine dental department.
Soon after I got off the phone with Glen, I went online to see about changing my flight reservations to get home a few hours earlier. No dice. Not only were the rules and restrictions being recited to me over the phone very difficult to grasp, but I quickly got the point that flight schedule changes will be expensive. Like, upwards of $150. And that's not including checking in any bags (which I did not on this trip).
So, I'll try to savor the atmosphere of St. Petersburg, and maybe even work in a local art attraction or two. A friend of mind informed me that there's a great Salvador Dali museum, and I also noticed that the works of an incredible glass artist, Dale Chihuly, are on display somewhere around here. Moments of art appreciation are hard to come by for me these days. And yet, I'll also be happy to stumble through the front door of our house late Friday night, hug my sweet Glen, and be driven batty by the two very good, very cute, very crazy kids that I was lucky enough to have assigned to me. Hopefully Lager and Spike will offer me a tail wag or two.
My work at HMC has taken me to St. Petersburg, FL, for a two-day meeting having to do with one of the many National Science Foundation (NSF) grants that HMC faculty have. This particular grant is overseen by a team of faculty members in our Computer Science department, and I serve as the "evaluator" for the program. In simple terms, that means I work with the faculty to come up with ways to make sure that the goals of their funded project are actually being met.
Each year, those of us who have earned the lofty title of "evaluator" for this particular NSF project gather to discuss various and sundry things. I will confess that, being somewhat of an NSF rookie, the topics discussed are often beyond me. They go "whoosh!" right over my head.
Last year, the evaluator's meeting was in Arlington, VA, and I had to catch a red eye out of LAX to get to the meeting, as there was no way on earth that I was going to miss Elizabeth's birthday party the day before.
This year, we're being treated to the somewhat warmer climes of Florida. I am holed up at the Renaissance Vinoy Hotel, somewhere along the harbor. This was not my original destination, however. The Hilton at which I had reservations kindly informed me that they were overbooked, but that they had "good news and great news" for me: my first night's reservation was on the house, and that for the first night I'd be staying at the lovely, historic, charming (read: OLD) Vinoy Hotel. This, of course, was dropped on my after finally figuring out that the first Hilton Hotel I stumbled upon in St. Petersburg was not the right one; curse you, Hertz Rent-a-Car "Never Lost" system!
I am sure as you can see from the photo (above) that any resemblance between the Renaissance Vinoy and the Sheraton Royal Hawaiian Hotel (a.k.a., "The Pink Palace) is purely coincidental. Alarming, but coincidental.
Now that I'm settled in my room, and have nothing better to do than to watch over-priced movies on the in-room entertainment system, browse the web, eat junk food, and post my musing on my blog, I find that I am very lonely. I do not envy Glen's being away from David and Elizabeth on most week days. I'm sure he doesn't find it to be a walk in the park, either.
But while I do welcome the quiet, the respite, the intellectual exchanges that I'll be having with colleagues from other institutions, and the ability to sleep undisturbed so as to shake off this lingering cold that I've had, I really miss my tribe. David was wide awake as I left for Ontario Airport at the crack of dark this morning, but Elizabeth was tucked warmly in her cozy bed. I lingered over her for just a few extra seconds as I kissed her very soft cheek and stroked her very soft hair. She was out cold, but the picture of sleepy perfection.
I know for a fact, and beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the kids are having a high old time with Glen. My husband - my hero - shepherded the troupe through the morning routine with the skill of a seasoned professional; add into the mix the additional stop at the veterinarian's office so that Lager (the Lab) could get his teeth cleaned, and one can surmise that Glen had a very busy morning. Not to worry. He's a champ. His evening report to me was that all went swimmingly, despite the fact that Lager had to have four teeth pulled, further evidence of our negligence in the canine dental department.
Soon after I got off the phone with Glen, I went online to see about changing my flight reservations to get home a few hours earlier. No dice. Not only were the rules and restrictions being recited to me over the phone very difficult to grasp, but I quickly got the point that flight schedule changes will be expensive. Like, upwards of $150. And that's not including checking in any bags (which I did not on this trip).
So, I'll try to savor the atmosphere of St. Petersburg, and maybe even work in a local art attraction or two. A friend of mind informed me that there's a great Salvador Dali museum, and I also noticed that the works of an incredible glass artist, Dale Chihuly, are on display somewhere around here. Moments of art appreciation are hard to come by for me these days. And yet, I'll also be happy to stumble through the front door of our house late Friday night, hug my sweet Glen, and be driven batty by the two very good, very cute, very crazy kids that I was lucky enough to have assigned to me. Hopefully Lager and Spike will offer me a tail wag or two.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
DSLR, Where have you been all my life?
It's time to move away from more maudlin topics and start focusing in on what really matters.
Like, for example, teaching my son how to blow a proper spit-wad, and have a camera with a fast enough shutter speed to capture the moment.
Yes, Glen and I finally saved up enough points through our credit card rewards program, and are the proud parents of a Nikon D90 DSLR camera. Boy, is this baby slick. And, yes, I did say spit-wad. But more on that later.
I fetched my ... I mean, our beloved new toy from the FedEx office in West Covina, and let the battery charge over night on Tuesday. By Wednesday, we were ready to roll. A not-so-quick study of the user manual (which weights almost as much as the camera itself), wasn't very forthcoming on how to make the shutter speed super-duper fast. I mean, it's supposed to have a speed up to 1/4000/sec, for Pete's sake. I finally found my answer on some total stranger's blog post, but soon I was in business.
The photogenetic silliness started yesterday evening, right after dinner. As you can see from some of the pictures here, I'm a wise and responsible parent, and encourage my kids to jump off furniture. For artistic purposes only, of course.
That I can now possibly capture a rare moment of repose where David and Elizabeth are being simultaneously cute and nice to each other is unbelievably cool.
I'm still working on trying to get action shots of water being spewed out of David's mouth, however.
Action shots thus lead me to the topic of spit-wads. David blew through his homework like a pro, and began doing his 20 minutes of reading after we consumed a homemade pizza. The book, "Mrs. Nelson Has a Field Day" includes references to spit-wads.
"What's that?" David asked me, innocently enough.
I didn't answer right away, but went to the pantry to grab a straw. I yanked a paper towel off of the holder, and tore off a small corner. I put it in my mouth.
David's first reaction was not what I expected. "EW!"
"Stay with me," I said. "My old friend, Clifton, who I worked with in Chicago, taught me the proper technique." I left out the part of how Clifton taught me spit-wad technique, at a restaurant, in front of the proprietor. Good thing the place was relatively empty at the time.
Soon, small bits of soggy paper towel were flying out of my straw.
And it was on. "I wanna try!" He proclaimed!
So, I tried walking him through the steps. He's a champ at wetting and stuffing the paper into the straw, but the technique of blowing the proper force of air clearly takes a bit of practice. Soon enough, Elizabeth gave it a whirl. Observe:
Spit-wad practice was quickly abandoned for the purposes of trying to capture more action shots. David is fond of requesting photos that depict Elizabeth pushing him and him falling down. He also gets a kick out of mid-air shots, which he now refers to as "super hero" pictures. Here are two from yesterday and one from tonight:
As I finish this blog entry, I am reminded that we're close to wrapping up the first four weeks of Glen being at Facebook. A very good friend (and HMC colleague) of mine asked me this morning how we were all doing. I was so touched! It's amazing how often I am being asked about how we're all settling into our new routine, and how we're all holding up, but physically and mentally. The well wishes are awesome!
And to tell you the truth, so far it's been great. The fun times far outweigh the times that David and Elizabeth are being challenging, have turned off their "listening ears," or are simply being silly. Okay, they also outweigh the times when I've come unglued, too. We're finding our groove.
But let's look at the photos we take four weeks from now, and we can then decide whether peace in the kingdom prevails.
Like, for example, teaching my son how to blow a proper spit-wad, and have a camera with a fast enough shutter speed to capture the moment.
Yes, Glen and I finally saved up enough points through our credit card rewards program, and are the proud parents of a Nikon D90 DSLR camera. Boy, is this baby slick. And, yes, I did say spit-wad. But more on that later.
I fetched my ... I mean, our beloved new toy from the FedEx office in West Covina, and let the battery charge over night on Tuesday. By Wednesday, we were ready to roll. A not-so-quick study of the user manual (which weights almost as much as the camera itself), wasn't very forthcoming on how to make the shutter speed super-duper fast. I mean, it's supposed to have a speed up to 1/4000/sec, for Pete's sake. I finally found my answer on some total stranger's blog post, but soon I was in business.
The photogenetic silliness started yesterday evening, right after dinner. As you can see from some of the pictures here, I'm a wise and responsible parent, and encourage my kids to jump off furniture. For artistic purposes only, of course.
Action shots thus lead me to the topic of spit-wads. David blew through his homework like a pro, and began doing his 20 minutes of reading after we consumed a homemade pizza. The book, "Mrs. Nelson Has a Field Day" includes references to spit-wads.
"What's that?" David asked me, innocently enough.
I didn't answer right away, but went to the pantry to grab a straw. I yanked a paper towel off of the holder, and tore off a small corner. I put it in my mouth.
David's first reaction was not what I expected. "EW!"
"Stay with me," I said. "My old friend, Clifton, who I worked with in Chicago, taught me the proper technique." I left out the part of how Clifton taught me spit-wad technique, at a restaurant, in front of the proprietor. Good thing the place was relatively empty at the time.
Soon, small bits of soggy paper towel were flying out of my straw.
And it was on. "I wanna try!" He proclaimed!
So, I tried walking him through the steps. He's a champ at wetting and stuffing the paper into the straw, but the technique of blowing the proper force of air clearly takes a bit of practice. Soon enough, Elizabeth gave it a whirl. Observe:
As I finish this blog entry, I am reminded that we're close to wrapping up the first four weeks of Glen being at Facebook. A very good friend (and HMC colleague) of mine asked me this morning how we were all doing. I was so touched! It's amazing how often I am being asked about how we're all settling into our new routine, and how we're all holding up, but physically and mentally. The well wishes are awesome!
And to tell you the truth, so far it's been great. The fun times far outweigh the times that David and Elizabeth are being challenging, have turned off their "listening ears," or are simply being silly. Okay, they also outweigh the times when I've come unglued, too. We're finding our groove.
But let's look at the photos we take four weeks from now, and we can then decide whether peace in the kingdom prevails.
Monday, January 10, 2011
An ode to inspirational teachers
I first met Mr. Trussell prior to starting at Webb, though. My mom and I returned home from my school day at Corona Junior High to the small condo we had in Claremont one spring afternoon in 1984. My sister, Julie, informed me that the choir director was seeking additional students to be a member of the Chamber Singers for the coming school year. I had already been admitted to Webb, and Julie, who was by then finishing up her sophomore year, had already signed up to be in Chamber Singers in the fall. "Do you want to go up to campus and audition?"
"When?" I asked.
"Right now!"
Before I knew what was happening, Mom and Julie were shuffling me into the Ford Station Wagon, and off we went to 1175 Baseline Road, the official address of my future home away from home.
Julie escorted me to the music room which, back then, was perched on top of the building that was affectionately referred to as the "Old Gym." I climbed the stairs to face my first close up with the legendary Mr. Trussell. I had no idea what was in store for me.
Julie made the introductions, and I shook hands with the very gracious, very British, Chris Trussell. He welcomed me warmly, sat at the piano and asked me to sing a few notes. He tested my vocal range, and asked how high I could go.
"Well, I think I can go to a high C," I replied.
He chuckled politely, and said, "well, let's see." When I attempted to hit a high "C" (which I did; remember that my vocal chords were much younger back then), his eyes widened a little and he said, "you're right! You are a soprano!" At that moment, he welcomed me into the Chamber Singers fold. And I hadn't even officially matriculated yet. I was stunned and honored.
Throughout the 1984-85 school year, I got to know Mr. Trussell very well. Chamber Singers was always the first class of the day, and my new friends and I delighted in gathering in the old Music Room at the start of each day. On colder days (before the onset of global warming, I assume), we'd huddle together around the furnace to keep warm. He even asked me to be part of Webb's barbershop quartet which, traditionally, was only for boys. You bet I welcomed the opportunity to sing with three male baritones and tenors.
Being adolescents, and with a 50/50 split of boys and girls, the sexual tension in the Music Room was palpable. Mr. Trussell, I am sure, was well aware of the teenage hormones he had to deal with every day, and for the most part he took it all in stride.
And yet, of course, there were days when he did not. It was not uncommon for his British temper to get the best of him. He frequently let loose on those of us who were goofing off; sometimes, his rants included throwing things. But, you know what? We sort of understood this. He was an artist, through and through, and extremely passionate about his work, his students, and the excellence he saw in and demanded of all of us.
He was the director of the very first stage production I was in. Webb's 1985 musical was The Sound of Music and I got to play one of the Von Trapp children. It was a magical time.
Then, that spring, he directed a production of Arsenic and Old Lace. It was roaring good fun. My best friend, Kathy, and I were cast as the senile, crazy, lovable, and murderous aunts, Martha and Abbey. Julie, my sister, played the girlfriend of the embattled Mortimer, the nephew of the crazy old ladies; he, in turn, was played by my old friend, David. Another dear friend and Webb refugee, Jason, was brilliant as Teddy, Mortimer's brother who is as crazy as his aunts and thinks he's Teddy Roosevelt. Our rehearsals saw good times and bad; Mr. Trussell was easily stressed, and we all knew that he dealt with issues of high blood pressure. None of us were prepared, though, for his unexpected and sudden trip to the hospital one evening, about three weeks before the show opened, with what was feared to be a stroke. We, the cast, were sure we'd done something to provoke this. We felt awful.
But, Mr. Trussell bounced back, and the show went on. We didn't have much of an audience at any of the three performances, but we had a hell of a good time.
Mr. Trussell was also known and loved for his quick wit and droll sense of humor. He randomly made up a poem of me one afternoon, just to get my goat:
"Janel, Janel,
You know damn well,
You really ought to go to ..."
You had to be there at the time, but it was immensely funny. For him, teasing and poking fun was never personal or intended to hurt. Instead, it was one of his many ways of showing how much he cared for and respected you as an individual. He must of thought rather highly of me, given that he also pointed out one day that "Janel" rhymes with "gazelle."
When he chose to leave Webb at the end of my first academic year, his theater and music devotees were heartbroken. We were assured that it would only be for a one-year sabbatical, well earned in order to get his health (and blood pressure) squared away. Alas, he left Webb for good in order to pursue his other life-long passion of joining the priesthood.
The class and dignity with which he created and maintained the performing arts at The Webb Schools departed with him. Music and dance instructors came to campus who were quite young, immature, and all too eager to be seen as one of the "cool teachers." By the time my senior year rolled around, I mourned for the civility at Webb that was so present during Mr. Trussell's time on campus. But it was his class, his professionalism, and his genuine love of students that prompted me to track him down during the fall of my senior year to request that he write my letter of recommendation for admission to UCLA's School of Theater, Film and Television. Ever gracious, ever kind, he happily agreed. I was admitted, and I owe it all to him.
While ultimately I didn't end up attending UCLA as an undergraduate (which is good, because if I had, I would never have met Glen!), this accolade meant the world to me, reassuring me not only of the talents I discovered under Mr. Trussell's guidance, but also that real teachers, true teachers, put their students' cares and concerns before their own, and make a lasting impact.
I love you, Mr. Trussell.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Random reflections from a heavy heart ...
This is one of those events where you'll always remember exactly where you were when you heard about it. For me, I had just pulled out of the parking lot of the wonderful Corner Butcher shop in La Verne, and was listening to the Saturday morning silliness on NPR's show, "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me." Paula Poundstone, Tom Bodett, and Carl Castle were in their element. Then, the broadcast faded out and NPR started fading in what appeared to be a live news story, regarding "the tragic events in Tucson."
Just as I maneuvered the car into the parking lot at Vons in La Verne, the NPR anchor announced the shooting at the Safeway in Tucson, and that Gabrielle Giffords had been killed. Gabby Giffords. The Scripps alumna. Class of 1993. Never before in my entire motor-vehicle life has a news story ever prompted me to slam on the breaks, gasp for breath, and stop breathing for at least 10 seconds. Until today.
I stayed in the car for an extra 10 minutes, listening to the news and trying absorb it all. I called Glen, who was at home getting David and Elizabeth ready to go to a friend's house so that we could catch a movie.
"Remember Gabrielle Giffords, the Scripps alum who is now in Congress?"
"Oh, yeah!"
"Apparently she was just shot and killed."
"Oh, shit."
"I'll be a few minutes late getting home."
I ran through the aisle of Vons, getting our weekly staples while entirely distracted. When I got back to the car, I flipped open my smart phone, logged onto CNN, and turned on the car stereo. At about that time I both heard and read that Rep. Giffords was alive, and in surgery. I breathed slightly.
When I got home, Glen and the kids were in the family room, and Glen had CNN on. David and Elizabeth could tell something was up. I asked them both, "did Daddy tell you what happened?"
"A person who went to your college got shot," David replied wisely.
"Yeah, it's sad, huh?"
"But she's still alive!"
"Yep, sweetie, she is, so we can hope for the best."
Elizabeth chimed in. "Mommy ... the lady who got shot ... does she have babies?" she inquired innocently.
My heart sank a bit. "No, I don't think so." I refrained from telling the kids that the news had reported that a child had been shot and killed in the rampage.
We piled into the car, took the kids to our friends house, and then proceeded to the theater to see "The Social Network." I'm slightly amazed that I refrained from checking my cell phone, looking for news updates, throughout the entire movie.
When we picked the kids up after the show (which was great, by the way), we told them that Miss Gabby was still alive and that the doctors were happy with how she was doing.
Elizabeth said, unprompted, "I miss her."
And this was, thus, another example of how much my kids amaze me. They take in more than we give them credit for, which is both good and bad. After about 10 minutes of listening to the news updates on KNX, I could tell that David and Elizabeth were getting antsy and a tad cranky. David protested getting pizza for dinner. Elizabeth claimed to have a headache. We turned off the radio and watched the beginning of the Jets/Colts game at Z Pizza.
Not surprisingly, Facebook has served as an incredible conduit of communication and support among the Scripps community, and I'm not just saying that because they happen to be my husband's employer. And the Internet has, of course, been a venue in which everyone and his uncle has offered up theories, hypotheses, and other insights regarding what caused this, what happens next, who is to blame, and how the vitriolic nature of our politicians, not to mention society at large, fanned the flames that led to this. I really don't find any of this to be helpful, but yet I found myself making the very uncommon move of professing my political opinions on my Facebook page:
I understand that I will likely invoke the ire of many Facebook friends with this statement, but as it stands this evening, I'm ready to repeal the Second Amendment. How on EARTH did the sick *!(!&#& who shot at my Scripps sister get access to a 30-round magazine for his 9mm Glock?
Then, I did a bit more web browsing. Turns out that Rep. Giffords is a gun owner and staunch supporter of the Second Amendment. A few friends posted very respectful replies to this effect. I then offered the following amendment to my statement which, for me, really is the key issue at hand here:
How (do we) best restrict gun access to those that are partially or completely un-hingned?
So, here we are, waiting along with the rest of the world for updates on the condition of everyone who was injured at the Tucson Safeway this morning. The Scripps College community, understandably, is in a state of shock. Regardless of whether we personally know Gabrielle Giffords is besides the point. I saw her on the Scripps campus back in 2004 as she accepted the Outstanding Alumna Award from our alma mater. Congresswoman Giffords was two years behind me at Scripps, and it's possible that she and I met while we were students, took a class together, or even shared a quick "hello" in passing. But it doesn't matter.
That the neurosurgeons at the University of Tucson Medical Center are "optimistic" about Rep. Gifford's recovery is nothing short of miraculous. I know that I am not alone in being both grateful for and awestruck by the incredible advances in neurosurgery that has enabled the medical establishment to be able to make such statements.
But, let me pause for a second to note that there was a tiny victim of this horrible event. My heart aches for the family who is now mourning the loss of their sweet nine-year-old girl whose life was violently and unfairly cut short. For this, and as a mommy, I am equally enraged.
Life is so short, folks. Hold your loved ones close. I promise to post on more upbeat topics next time. Meanwhile, thanks for letting me vent. I welcome your comments, reflections, and other musings.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Skype-Chat
I have a brand-new favorite part of my day: the time in the evening when Glen and I sync up via Skype.
For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, Skype is this very, very cool software application that lets you make voice and video calls over the Internet. Very high-tech. Very chic. Very now. We set up accounts some time ago in anticipation of a possible relocation to Singapore, figuring that if we moved, it'd be an easier and more economical way for us to stay in touch with the folks at home. Alas, an international, ex-pat assignment for Glen didn't come to fruition, but we kept our Skype accounts.
Since Glen's relocation to the Bay area, we've kept meaning to dust off our video-cams and headphones and try having face-to-face conversations. Finally, last night, we made this happen, but not without a few technical glitches along the way.
David and Elizabeth could not have been more enchanted by the concept of talking to Daddy via the computer. At the appointed time, I started our Skype call, and Glen's sweet face showed up on video. Voila! However, he could neither see nor hear me. I dismantled the extra web-cam, and let the built-in one on my Dell do the work for me. That worked like a charm.
But, still, no audio.
David and Elizabeth, meantime, kept calling out to the screen, "HI, DADDY," waving and making goofy faces under the assumption that he could see and hear everything. He could see us, all right. And we looked like mimes.
After about 60 minutes of tweaking on both ends of the call, I came across a function under Skype's Tools menu, and tinkered with an audio control. Suddenly, I heard Glen say, "WHOA!!"
"I take it you can hear me now."
"Yeah! Hi there!"
And, thus, more silliness ensued. David tried to create artistic pauses within our Internet chat by waving (or flashing) pieces of his artwork directly in front of the video camera. It was reminiscent of Vaudeville signs being shown to the audience, introducing the next act. Then, David thought it would be fun to shoot Nerf gun bullets at his dad on the screen. I quickly intervened.
But, those two kids could not get enough of Skype. Man, they thought it was the best invention since sliced bread! It took a while to convince them that 1) they had to go to bed, and 2) that they needed to stop poking their faces onto the video camera for just one more "HI DADDY" for the road.
The Skype interface was a welcome friend after school and work today, as well. This morning started out a bit rough around the edges, as we all got a bit of a late start out the door. David was very worried that 7:28 a.m. had rolled around and that his clothes were STILL not laid out for him. Clearly running out of time, breakfast consisted of stops at the donut store (for David) and McDonald's (for Elizabeth and me). We were all a tad stressed.
But, after school today, while eating a nutritious dinner of Costo pizza, the very excited Skype inquiries started in. "Mommy, are we going to see daddy on video tonight?" David asked several times, eyes wide and smile big.
"ONLY after you eat a good dinner ... finish your homework ... have a bath and brush teeth ... then maybe."
The little ones were really quite good about blowing through their evening tasks, and bounded to the computer when it was time for a little more Internet conversation. Glen was on line and ready to receive our call.
This time, though, he could hear and see us, but we couldn't hear him. It was his turn to be a mime. David and Elizabeth waved a lot; Glen waved back. We made funny faces at each other. Luckily, Glen figured out the glitch pretty quickly, and the problem was resolved.
And, once again, David and Elizabeth couldn't get close enough to the computer monitor or video portal in order to get their daddy's undivided attention. At least they were not pushing each other out of the way to get literal face time with Glen. To them, this was absolute magic. To me, it was a sign of a lasting God-send after a shaky start to the day. They get to see Daddy, live and in person, every day. Houston, we have contact!
So, our long-distance communications are now squarely in the 21st century. The only limitation with the video chat thing is that it's very difficult to hug your sweetie via the Internet. Sigh ...
For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, Skype is this very, very cool software application that lets you make voice and video calls over the Internet. Very high-tech. Very chic. Very now. We set up accounts some time ago in anticipation of a possible relocation to Singapore, figuring that if we moved, it'd be an easier and more economical way for us to stay in touch with the folks at home. Alas, an international, ex-pat assignment for Glen didn't come to fruition, but we kept our Skype accounts.
Since Glen's relocation to the Bay area, we've kept meaning to dust off our video-cams and headphones and try having face-to-face conversations. Finally, last night, we made this happen, but not without a few technical glitches along the way.
David and Elizabeth could not have been more enchanted by the concept of talking to Daddy via the computer. At the appointed time, I started our Skype call, and Glen's sweet face showed up on video. Voila! However, he could neither see nor hear me. I dismantled the extra web-cam, and let the built-in one on my Dell do the work for me. That worked like a charm.
But, still, no audio.
David and Elizabeth, meantime, kept calling out to the screen, "HI, DADDY," waving and making goofy faces under the assumption that he could see and hear everything. He could see us, all right. And we looked like mimes.
After about 60 minutes of tweaking on both ends of the call, I came across a function under Skype's Tools menu, and tinkered with an audio control. Suddenly, I heard Glen say, "WHOA!!"
"I take it you can hear me now."
"Yeah! Hi there!"
And, thus, more silliness ensued. David tried to create artistic pauses within our Internet chat by waving (or flashing) pieces of his artwork directly in front of the video camera. It was reminiscent of Vaudeville signs being shown to the audience, introducing the next act. Then, David thought it would be fun to shoot Nerf gun bullets at his dad on the screen. I quickly intervened.
But, those two kids could not get enough of Skype. Man, they thought it was the best invention since sliced bread! It took a while to convince them that 1) they had to go to bed, and 2) that they needed to stop poking their faces onto the video camera for just one more "HI DADDY" for the road.
The Skype interface was a welcome friend after school and work today, as well. This morning started out a bit rough around the edges, as we all got a bit of a late start out the door. David was very worried that 7:28 a.m. had rolled around and that his clothes were STILL not laid out for him. Clearly running out of time, breakfast consisted of stops at the donut store (for David) and McDonald's (for Elizabeth and me). We were all a tad stressed.
But, after school today, while eating a nutritious dinner of Costo pizza, the very excited Skype inquiries started in. "Mommy, are we going to see daddy on video tonight?" David asked several times, eyes wide and smile big.
"ONLY after you eat a good dinner ... finish your homework ... have a bath and brush teeth ... then maybe."
The little ones were really quite good about blowing through their evening tasks, and bounded to the computer when it was time for a little more Internet conversation. Glen was on line and ready to receive our call.
This time, though, he could hear and see us, but we couldn't hear him. It was his turn to be a mime. David and Elizabeth waved a lot; Glen waved back. We made funny faces at each other. Luckily, Glen figured out the glitch pretty quickly, and the problem was resolved.
And, once again, David and Elizabeth couldn't get close enough to the computer monitor or video portal in order to get their daddy's undivided attention. At least they were not pushing each other out of the way to get literal face time with Glen. To them, this was absolute magic. To me, it was a sign of a lasting God-send after a shaky start to the day. They get to see Daddy, live and in person, every day. Houston, we have contact!
So, our long-distance communications are now squarely in the 21st century. The only limitation with the video chat thing is that it's very difficult to hug your sweetie via the Internet. Sigh ...
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Pick you up at 3:05 ... if I remember
David's class is excused for the day at 3:05, on the dot, every afternoon. About twice a week, he attends after-school enrichment classes which, at any given time, may include tap dancing, computers, art, or music. On the days in which no after school activities are planned, he has the option of staying at the appropriately named "Stay Late" program, where kids can hang out, complete their homework, read, and play until the parents come and pick them up. I try, at least once a week, to get him by 3:05 so that we can have some down time together, or so that he can just go home and play (and I can nap).
The "Stay Late" option has become quite a God-send to us, now that our back-up arrangements for getting the kids from school have been decreased by 50%. On most days when I plan for David to hang out at school beyond 3:05, he and I usually discuss it ahead of time. I emphasize the word "usually" here, because there are also the occasions when the topic doesn't come up, and I just assume that he'll be cool with staying on campus a bit.
Sometimes this assumption is correct, and sometimes it ends in an epic fail. I'm just never quite sure what reaction I will get from him on those days when we haven't pre-briefed our after-school plans.
On some days, he will greet me with a merry smile, engrossed in either a game of Checkers, Battleship, or Sorry with one of the after-school workers, and will beg for five or ten more minutes to finish his game. On other days, he'll look at me forlornly as I walk into the library, and say, "Not to be mean, but why are you late?" With those big green eyes, long eyelashes, and sweet face looking up at me, this is usually an instant guilt-producer.
Usually, we're able to settle the matter rather quickly, with my reminding him that sometimes I just assume he's a big enough boy to be okay with staying after school for a bit, even if we haven't discussed it in advance. If time permits, a trip to Baskin-Robbins is usually quite helpful in negotiations.
Alas, yesterday's communications went down the toilet. On Monday, David happily agreed to stay at the "Stay Late" program, but yesterday was one of those days were we didn't mention it ahead of time. My assumptions that he'd go with the flow were mistaken. An additional snafu added into the equation was that my cell phone battery had conked out somewhere around noon, so I didn't hear any phone calls all afternoon.
I arrived at David's school just before 5:00 p.m., and found him playing in the library. His first words to me were a cheerful, "Mommy? Can we play Checkers?"
"Oh, dear. Sorry, sweetie. We need to go pick up sister," I replied. I signed him out, he grabbed his book bag and sweater, and we headed to the car.
Then, it started. "Mommy, not to be mean but ... why did you pick me up late?"
"David, sweetie, I assumed that you'd just be okay with heading over to extension after school today."
"But we didn't talk about it this morning," he said, with a not-so-subtle whine.
I began to fume, feeling at once impatient with his impatience and awful for possibly acting as though I'd forgotten all about him.
My response to him wasn't stellar: "Well, I'm sorry I'm an imperfect mother." We both marinated in silent frustration until we got to Elizabeth's school and picked her up. Luckily for us, she was in a great mood.
When the three of us got back to the car, and before I pulled out of the parking lot, I noticed that my now-charged phone was working, and that I had three voice mail messages. The first was from my mom, who had nothing more to report than that her favorite Hallmark store in Yorba Linda had closed down. The second and third messages were from one of the very kind ladies in the front office at David's school.
The first: "Hi, Janel ... it's 3:30 and just wanted to check in with you. David is a little concerned that you're not here. If we don't see you in a few minutes I'll send him over to Extended Care."
And then, the second: "Hi, Janel ... just in case you haven't picked up David yet, I just wanted to let you know that David is in the Extended Care classroom..."
Well, that settled it. I was officially a bad mother. I'm sure I wouldn't have felt so badly had this been my first infraction. However, I've received such voice mail messages before from the wonderful Foothill staff, reminding me that my panicked kid is wondering why he'd been abandoned.
So, this afternoon, I composed a brief email to the lady who left me the messages. It went something like this:
"Hi, ____ (I'll leave names out to protect the innocent):
"I wanted to let you know that I finally received the two voice mail messages you left for me yesterday afternoon. My cell phone battery conked out, and so I was unable to retrieve messages until about 7:00 p.m. I am so sorry to have missed your two calls, especially as they were referring to my panicked little guy.
"I apologize for yesterday's confusion. I assumed that David and I had agreed that he would stay after school for a bit in Extension, but I learned that we had not, in fact, discussed this ahead of time. I feel very badly for this, not only in that it prompted your having to leave unanswered messages, but for once again dropping the ball on my end.
"David does have extension classes today and tomorrow, so I think we're all set. At least until Friday.
"With thanks (and apologies) again,
Janel Hastings (Flaky mommy to #125)"
(note: 125 is David's "check out" number).
And her gracious reply reminded me once again how I am always so impressed and awed by the amazing staff at Foothill:
"Oh, how I remember being a working mother of a child the age of David. Please, don't ever apologize. Our plan is that if you are not here by 3:30 P.M., he automatically should be sent to "stay late." Someone (I don't remember who) brought him in and asked if I could call mom. When I saw his face, how could I say no. Moving forward, whether you plan it or not, if you are running late, don't worry as he will be sent to stay late. I explained to David that moms cannot always walk out of work and that he is surrounded by friends. He even admitted that I am one of his friends, which touched my heart.
Promise me no guilt trips; he is in good hands."
After breathing a huge sigh of relief, I responded:
"Thank you for the sweet note. I promise to go easy on the self-inflicted guilt trips. Well, at least I'll try!
"It's a plan: if I am not there by 3:30, he should be merrily on his way to extension. I will also confirm that with him just to be sure. I know for a fact that he actually loves hanging out after school. He feels incredibly productive and independent getting his homework done, and loves playing board games in the library with his friends once his work is done. There have been many times I've picked him up in "The Circle" at 3:05, only to find him looking a bit disappointed, and asking, "can I stay?"
"You're absolutely right that he's in good hands. Wonderful hands, in fact. That's why we love the school so much. And of course you are his friend, and a friend to the entire Hastings clan, at that!
"Many thanks again for your kindness. I needed that!
Yours,
Janel"
Indeed, my sweet David is in wonderful hands at his phenomenal school. It takes a village, and I'm grateful that I have one!
The "Stay Late" option has become quite a God-send to us, now that our back-up arrangements for getting the kids from school have been decreased by 50%. On most days when I plan for David to hang out at school beyond 3:05, he and I usually discuss it ahead of time. I emphasize the word "usually" here, because there are also the occasions when the topic doesn't come up, and I just assume that he'll be cool with staying on campus a bit.
Sometimes this assumption is correct, and sometimes it ends in an epic fail. I'm just never quite sure what reaction I will get from him on those days when we haven't pre-briefed our after-school plans.
On some days, he will greet me with a merry smile, engrossed in either a game of Checkers, Battleship, or Sorry with one of the after-school workers, and will beg for five or ten more minutes to finish his game. On other days, he'll look at me forlornly as I walk into the library, and say, "Not to be mean, but why are you late?" With those big green eyes, long eyelashes, and sweet face looking up at me, this is usually an instant guilt-producer.
Usually, we're able to settle the matter rather quickly, with my reminding him that sometimes I just assume he's a big enough boy to be okay with staying after school for a bit, even if we haven't discussed it in advance. If time permits, a trip to Baskin-Robbins is usually quite helpful in negotiations.
Alas, yesterday's communications went down the toilet. On Monday, David happily agreed to stay at the "Stay Late" program, but yesterday was one of those days were we didn't mention it ahead of time. My assumptions that he'd go with the flow were mistaken. An additional snafu added into the equation was that my cell phone battery had conked out somewhere around noon, so I didn't hear any phone calls all afternoon.
I arrived at David's school just before 5:00 p.m., and found him playing in the library. His first words to me were a cheerful, "Mommy? Can we play Checkers?"
"Oh, dear. Sorry, sweetie. We need to go pick up sister," I replied. I signed him out, he grabbed his book bag and sweater, and we headed to the car.
Then, it started. "Mommy, not to be mean but ... why did you pick me up late?"
"David, sweetie, I assumed that you'd just be okay with heading over to extension after school today."
"But we didn't talk about it this morning," he said, with a not-so-subtle whine.
I began to fume, feeling at once impatient with his impatience and awful for possibly acting as though I'd forgotten all about him.
My response to him wasn't stellar: "Well, I'm sorry I'm an imperfect mother." We both marinated in silent frustration until we got to Elizabeth's school and picked her up. Luckily for us, she was in a great mood.
When the three of us got back to the car, and before I pulled out of the parking lot, I noticed that my now-charged phone was working, and that I had three voice mail messages. The first was from my mom, who had nothing more to report than that her favorite Hallmark store in Yorba Linda had closed down. The second and third messages were from one of the very kind ladies in the front office at David's school.
The first: "Hi, Janel ... it's 3:30 and just wanted to check in with you. David is a little concerned that you're not here. If we don't see you in a few minutes I'll send him over to Extended Care."
And then, the second: "Hi, Janel ... just in case you haven't picked up David yet, I just wanted to let you know that David is in the Extended Care classroom..."
Well, that settled it. I was officially a bad mother. I'm sure I wouldn't have felt so badly had this been my first infraction. However, I've received such voice mail messages before from the wonderful Foothill staff, reminding me that my panicked kid is wondering why he'd been abandoned.
So, this afternoon, I composed a brief email to the lady who left me the messages. It went something like this:
"Hi, ____ (I'll leave names out to protect the innocent):
"I wanted to let you know that I finally received the two voice mail messages you left for me yesterday afternoon. My cell phone battery conked out, and so I was unable to retrieve messages until about 7:00 p.m. I am so sorry to have missed your two calls, especially as they were referring to my panicked little guy.
"I apologize for yesterday's confusion. I assumed that David and I had agreed that he would stay after school for a bit in Extension, but I learned that we had not, in fact, discussed this ahead of time. I feel very badly for this, not only in that it prompted your having to leave unanswered messages, but for once again dropping the ball on my end.
"David does have extension classes today and tomorrow, so I think we're all set. At least until Friday.
"With thanks (and apologies) again,
Janel Hastings (Flaky mommy to #125)"
(note: 125 is David's "check out" number).
And her gracious reply reminded me once again how I am always so impressed and awed by the amazing staff at Foothill:
"Oh, how I remember being a working mother of a child the age of David. Please, don't ever apologize. Our plan is that if you are not here by 3:30 P.M., he automatically should be sent to "stay late." Someone (I don't remember who) brought him in and asked if I could call mom. When I saw his face, how could I say no. Moving forward, whether you plan it or not, if you are running late, don't worry as he will be sent to stay late. I explained to David that moms cannot always walk out of work and that he is surrounded by friends. He even admitted that I am one of his friends, which touched my heart.
Promise me no guilt trips; he is in good hands."
After breathing a huge sigh of relief, I responded:
"Thank you for the sweet note. I promise to go easy on the self-inflicted guilt trips. Well, at least I'll try!
"It's a plan: if I am not there by 3:30, he should be merrily on his way to extension. I will also confirm that with him just to be sure. I know for a fact that he actually loves hanging out after school. He feels incredibly productive and independent getting his homework done, and loves playing board games in the library with his friends once his work is done. There have been many times I've picked him up in "The Circle" at 3:05, only to find him looking a bit disappointed, and asking, "can I stay?"
"You're absolutely right that he's in good hands. Wonderful hands, in fact. That's why we love the school so much. And of course you are his friend, and a friend to the entire Hastings clan, at that!
"Many thanks again for your kindness. I needed that!
Yours,
Janel"
Indeed, my sweet David is in wonderful hands at his phenomenal school. It takes a village, and I'm grateful that I have one!
Monday, January 3, 2011
Puppy love
As I am sure I have mentioned in previous postings on this blog, we have two dogs.
Spike is a fifteen-year-old Bichon Frise, and is originally from either Wilmette or Winnetka, IL. I'm not exactly sure which town his first house was located in. Regardless, he was purchased as a puppy at a pet store, and when he was five years old, his first owners gave him up for adoption, apparently because the little girl of the family (who was, oh, eight at the time) wasn't taking care of him on her own. We connected with Spike via the wonderful people at Bichon Frise Rescue of the greater Chicagoland area. By the time we met Spike, he was being cared for at a wonderful foster home in Wisconsin. It was love at first site; he had me at his first "Bichon Buzz."
Lager is a stately, nine-year-old Labrador Retriever and hails from the beautiful Shamrock Acres in Wisconsin. We brought him home when he was a mere eight weeks old, and no bigger than the size of my two fists put together. He was one of four males in a six-pup litter, and we spotted the right dog pretty quickly: Lager was the puppy who eagerly tugged at the strap to our camera case, dragging it across the lawn as if to say, "let's get in the car!" I remember with great fondness how Lager curled up on my shoulder as we sat together in the back seat of our former Jeep, and dozed his way home to Chicago. Spike, having been with us for about six months, was very confused by this new playmate foisted upon him. He was even more bewildered when the fury creature quickly grew to be bigger than he. But that's another story.
So, Spike and Lager are our original babies. They are our companions, guards, alarm clocks, and welcoming committee. Our house is perpetually covered in yellow fur. I am usually greeted each evening with a small puddle of pee on the floor, and for nine years now, neither dog has ever ratted out the other.
We would not have it any other way.
But, as noted earlier, both boys are getting on in years. The average life-span of a Bichon is around 18 years or so; for a Labrador, it's 10 years, if you're lucky. We like to think that raising our dogs to be happy, lazy couch potatoes has added, not subtracted, years to their life. They are pampered pooches; they have full ownership of the leather couch in the den, doggie beds from L.L. Bean (courtesy of Memé and Pepé), and and an endless supply of Science Diet chow and Milk Bones (usually delivered by Grandma Josie). Whenever possible, we take them to the annual Blessing of the Animals at the Episcopal Church of the Ascension, our small congregation in Sierra Madre. Life, as they know it, is pretty darned good.
So, this evening, when the kids and I arrived home from school/work, we trampled into the den via the garage entrance, and greeted our canine companions as we always do. Lager reluctantly poured himself off of the couch and strolled his way over to the kids, in search of hugs, kisses, and a morsel or two of food. Spike remained perched on one of the dog beds and didn't budge. This is not unusual behavior for him, so I just let him be. The kids deposited (i.e., dumped) their school bags, shoes, and jackets on the other side of the doggie gate, washed their hands (after being reminded a few times), and perched onto the bar stools around the kitchen's center island, waiting for dinner. David began reading from his latest library book, and I warmed up some supper for the three of us.
I wolfed down my dinner, and then went to fetch the dogs their dinner. Now, it's important to note here that Spike is almost as picky an eater as David and Elizabeth. A sure-fire way to entice his taste buds, though, is to sprinkle something extra special and yummy atop his kibble. Grated cheese or Goldfish crackers usually work well. Chateau Brion beef is also a winner, too. Tonight, I stuck with the cheese.
Upon seeing sharp cheddar being tossed on top of his Science Diet kibble, Spike didn't rise from his pillows to investigate, so I brought his dish over to him. We try to put his bowl in a location that will ensure Spike will have full access to it before Lager tries to nose his way in and finish the food for him. Tonight, Spike received dinner in bed. But, when I took his bowl to him, I could see that he was visibly shaking. I wasn't sure why.
I puttered around the kitchen for a few more minutes while the kids ate and babbled happily to/with/at each other, and kept glancing over to Spike. He was picking daintily at his cheese, but seemed to be otherwise unimpressed with his meal. Slightly concerned, I went back over to his doggie bed, sat down next to him, and began petting him.
"What's going on, little man?" I whispered into his soft ear. "You okay? Whassup?"
No answer, of course. He's a pooch, for Pete's sake, and is disinclined to communicate with mere mortals such as I. I kept petting him and stroking his white coat.
"Mommy," Elizabeth called from her bar stool, chicken nugget in hand. "Is Spikey okay?"
"Oh, I think so, sweetie," I replied. "I'm just hanging out with him."
No sooner had I responded to my little girl's question than did I notice her standing right next to Spike and me.
"Oh, Spikey! We take care of you!" Elizabeth declared. She knelt down beside him and joined me at his pillow.
"We protect him!" Elizabeth commanded. "I pet him. Good Spikey!"
She reached her little hand toward him and began giving him gentle, loving pets. Perhaps I was imagining things, but Spike's shivering soon stopped. Completely. He and his girl enjoyed their moment together.
Not long after that, David came over to get in on the action.
"Mommy," he asked, "when can we get a new dog?"
A new dog? A NEW DOG? We have two perfectly good dogs right here, right now! I withheld my slight horror, and simply said, "we need a new dog?"
"Well ..." he began, and then hesitated. "You know," he continued, then paused again. He rolled his eyes and shrugged slightly, and said, "after they go to their great reward?"
"Oh, I don't think I that will be for a while, buddy," I said.
"Mommy," asked Elizabeth, "when will we go to heaven?"
Oh, dear. I wasn't prepared for a deep philosophical discussion tonight, but I did my best. "Us? Oh, gosh, not for quite a long time from now!" I assured her.
"And when will Spike and Lager go to Doggie Heaven?" she further inquired.
"Well, I think that won't be for a while," I said (hoping that I was correct). "When it's their time."
Fast forward to an hour later, and Glen and I were chatting via Yahoo! instant messaging. During our text conversation, I was relaying messages from David and Elizabeth to Daddy, (currently stationed at Hastings Compound: North). Elizabeth instructed me to inform her father that she wished him to "get her a new dog."
"New Dog? Really?" Glen replied. I relayed the shaking Bichon story to Glen. Soon after, we were texting plans to take Spike and Lager to an off-leash doggie park in West Hollywood to celebrate our respective school and work holidays for the MLK national holiday in a couple of weeks.
Spike and Lager are such amazing souls. They put up with long stretches of being home alone each day, but still greet us at the door with wagging tails. Okay, sometimes they are still sitting or lying down when we come home, but their tails are active. We may not be the most diligent pet owners in terms of taking them for walks, but they will forever have our hearts, our love, and our leather sofa.
Spike is a fifteen-year-old Bichon Frise, and is originally from either Wilmette or Winnetka, IL. I'm not exactly sure which town his first house was located in. Regardless, he was purchased as a puppy at a pet store, and when he was five years old, his first owners gave him up for adoption, apparently because the little girl of the family (who was, oh, eight at the time) wasn't taking care of him on her own. We connected with Spike via the wonderful people at Bichon Frise Rescue of the greater Chicagoland area. By the time we met Spike, he was being cared for at a wonderful foster home in Wisconsin. It was love at first site; he had me at his first "Bichon Buzz."
Lager is a stately, nine-year-old Labrador Retriever and hails from the beautiful Shamrock Acres in Wisconsin. We brought him home when he was a mere eight weeks old, and no bigger than the size of my two fists put together. He was one of four males in a six-pup litter, and we spotted the right dog pretty quickly: Lager was the puppy who eagerly tugged at the strap to our camera case, dragging it across the lawn as if to say, "let's get in the car!" I remember with great fondness how Lager curled up on my shoulder as we sat together in the back seat of our former Jeep, and dozed his way home to Chicago. Spike, having been with us for about six months, was very confused by this new playmate foisted upon him. He was even more bewildered when the fury creature quickly grew to be bigger than he. But that's another story.
So, Spike and Lager are our original babies. They are our companions, guards, alarm clocks, and welcoming committee. Our house is perpetually covered in yellow fur. I am usually greeted each evening with a small puddle of pee on the floor, and for nine years now, neither dog has ever ratted out the other.
We would not have it any other way.
But, as noted earlier, both boys are getting on in years. The average life-span of a Bichon is around 18 years or so; for a Labrador, it's 10 years, if you're lucky. We like to think that raising our dogs to be happy, lazy couch potatoes has added, not subtracted, years to their life. They are pampered pooches; they have full ownership of the leather couch in the den, doggie beds from L.L. Bean (courtesy of Memé and Pepé), and and an endless supply of Science Diet chow and Milk Bones (usually delivered by Grandma Josie). Whenever possible, we take them to the annual Blessing of the Animals at the Episcopal Church of the Ascension, our small congregation in Sierra Madre. Life, as they know it, is pretty darned good.
So, this evening, when the kids and I arrived home from school/work, we trampled into the den via the garage entrance, and greeted our canine companions as we always do. Lager reluctantly poured himself off of the couch and strolled his way over to the kids, in search of hugs, kisses, and a morsel or two of food. Spike remained perched on one of the dog beds and didn't budge. This is not unusual behavior for him, so I just let him be. The kids deposited (i.e., dumped) their school bags, shoes, and jackets on the other side of the doggie gate, washed their hands (after being reminded a few times), and perched onto the bar stools around the kitchen's center island, waiting for dinner. David began reading from his latest library book, and I warmed up some supper for the three of us.
I wolfed down my dinner, and then went to fetch the dogs their dinner. Now, it's important to note here that Spike is almost as picky an eater as David and Elizabeth. A sure-fire way to entice his taste buds, though, is to sprinkle something extra special and yummy atop his kibble. Grated cheese or Goldfish crackers usually work well. Chateau Brion beef is also a winner, too. Tonight, I stuck with the cheese.
Upon seeing sharp cheddar being tossed on top of his Science Diet kibble, Spike didn't rise from his pillows to investigate, so I brought his dish over to him. We try to put his bowl in a location that will ensure Spike will have full access to it before Lager tries to nose his way in and finish the food for him. Tonight, Spike received dinner in bed. But, when I took his bowl to him, I could see that he was visibly shaking. I wasn't sure why.
I puttered around the kitchen for a few more minutes while the kids ate and babbled happily to/with/at each other, and kept glancing over to Spike. He was picking daintily at his cheese, but seemed to be otherwise unimpressed with his meal. Slightly concerned, I went back over to his doggie bed, sat down next to him, and began petting him.
"What's going on, little man?" I whispered into his soft ear. "You okay? Whassup?"
No answer, of course. He's a pooch, for Pete's sake, and is disinclined to communicate with mere mortals such as I. I kept petting him and stroking his white coat.
"Mommy," Elizabeth called from her bar stool, chicken nugget in hand. "Is Spikey okay?"
"Oh, I think so, sweetie," I replied. "I'm just hanging out with him."
No sooner had I responded to my little girl's question than did I notice her standing right next to Spike and me.
"Oh, Spikey! We take care of you!" Elizabeth declared. She knelt down beside him and joined me at his pillow.
"We protect him!" Elizabeth commanded. "I pet him. Good Spikey!"
She reached her little hand toward him and began giving him gentle, loving pets. Perhaps I was imagining things, but Spike's shivering soon stopped. Completely. He and his girl enjoyed their moment together.
Not long after that, David came over to get in on the action.
"Mommy," he asked, "when can we get a new dog?"
A new dog? A NEW DOG? We have two perfectly good dogs right here, right now! I withheld my slight horror, and simply said, "we need a new dog?"
"Well ..." he began, and then hesitated. "You know," he continued, then paused again. He rolled his eyes and shrugged slightly, and said, "after they go to their great reward?"
"Oh, I don't think I that will be for a while, buddy," I said.
"Mommy," asked Elizabeth, "when will we go to heaven?"
Oh, dear. I wasn't prepared for a deep philosophical discussion tonight, but I did my best. "Us? Oh, gosh, not for quite a long time from now!" I assured her.
"And when will Spike and Lager go to Doggie Heaven?" she further inquired.
"Well, I think that won't be for a while," I said (hoping that I was correct). "When it's their time."
Fast forward to an hour later, and Glen and I were chatting via Yahoo! instant messaging. During our text conversation, I was relaying messages from David and Elizabeth to Daddy, (currently stationed at Hastings Compound: North). Elizabeth instructed me to inform her father that she wished him to "get her a new dog."
"New Dog? Really?" Glen replied. I relayed the shaking Bichon story to Glen. Soon after, we were texting plans to take Spike and Lager to an off-leash doggie park in West Hollywood to celebrate our respective school and work holidays for the MLK national holiday in a couple of weeks.
Spike and Lager are such amazing souls. They put up with long stretches of being home alone each day, but still greet us at the door with wagging tails. Okay, sometimes they are still sitting or lying down when we come home, but their tails are active. We may not be the most diligent pet owners in terms of taking them for walks, but they will forever have our hearts, our love, and our leather sofa.
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