An Ode to a Beautiful Bichon

Back in 2002, after Glen and I had purchased our first home in Chicago, and before we had children, we were absolutely hell-bent on getting a dog. Not just one dog, mind you. But two. And we knew the specific breeds we would seeking to add to our family: a yellow Labrador, and a Bichon Frise.

So, with a home purchased, a mortgage under our belt, and no apartment leases that prohibited the inclusion of four-legged, furry creatures in our dwelling, we set forth on our canine adventure.

Now, pretty much everyone has heard of the faithful Labrador Retriever. But a Bichon? Not so much. I had first heard about this lively, beautiful little breed of a dog from a sad news story out of San Jose, where Bichon had died as a result of some nut-job's road rage (luckily, this nut-job got 3 years behind bars). My heart was immediately smitten, not only to this fluffy little sweetheart's terrible end, but also with the breed itself. If my mind hadn't immediately chosen my ideal dog, my heart had.

So, in early 2001, I came across the website for the Bichon Frise rescue of greater Wisconsin. I filled out an on-line form to express my interest in adopting one, and then waited. About two weeks later, we got the phone call that changed the course the next 11 years of our married life.

Spike had just been surrendered to the Bichon Rescue by a family from Winnetka, IL. He had been a pet store puppy, and apparently had been given to a little girl, whose parents ultimately decided that the dog was too much trouble. Laura Fox Meacham, a woman who had established for herself a reputation of being the Godmother of Bichon Frise rescue, contact me to tell me that this five-year old male was ready for adoption. Could we come out to Wisconsin to meet him?

Long story short, by the end of the following weekend, Glen and I brought our first baby home. It was pretty much love at first tail wag. The moment Spike laid eyes on us, he, flopped onto his back, tummy in the air, and began to wave his front paws in fits of excitement, simply daring us to not be tempted to scratch and pet him all over. Good Lord, he had me at hello.

Spike, in his crate and in the car, heading home to Chicago

Glen and I ... well, okay, I became the quintessential crazy dog owner. I lost my mind. I sought cute clothes for him to wear (including sweaters, trench coats and rain slickers). I tied bandannas and bows around his neck. His new paternal grandparents pampered him with doggie bedding from L.L. Bean. It was great. I am certain that Spike quickly understood that his new family had become completely unhinged.

Spike, in low light, and reigning over his domicile

Spike has me right where he wants me

A few months later, the terrorist attacks of 9/11 took place. Glen and I were grateful that our sweet little couch potato was content to sit with us and be habitually petted and cuddled, providing us comfort and solace on a terrible day.

Soon after 9/11 ... notice the US Flag necklace I am wearing

One thing we quickly noticed about Spike was his hesitancy around men whom he did not know. Worse, he became aggressive with men of color. We had several embarrassing occasions where he'd nip at the ankles of friends and co-workers who were Hispanic or African America, prompting us to wonder what happened in his first home to make him so scared.

But, his sense of humor always remained in tact. He could charm even the staunchest curmudgeon with his wagging tail, his "Bichon Buzz" (wherein he, without warning, would begin running around a room at break-neck speed, as though deliriously and happily possessed). He could grab a slice of pizza from your hand while taking a mid-air leap before your eyes. Just ask his paternal grandfather.

About a  month after 9/11, Spike reluctantly helped us welcome a new baby to the family: our much-anticipated Yellow Lab, whom we named Lager. Note that Lager was still much smaller than Spike when he first came home with us. This size differential did not last long.

Baby Lager, conked out in the background, and Spike, in the foreground, as if to say, "REALLY?"

The two became fast friends and brothers. While Lager quickly sprouted to be three times the size of his older brother, Spike remained firmly and squarely the Alpha Male, as evidenced by his repeated attempts to hump Lager for years.

As the years past, both dogs tolerated two more additions to our home: David, in 2003, Elizabeth, in 2007, and most recently Honey, our rescued cat. Glen and I had read all sorts of articles, warning us about the dangers and risks inherent in mixing dogs and infants. Armed with knowledge and baby gates, we took every step to familiarize the pooches to David's scent just as soon as he was born. We did the old "bring home a blanket from the hospital for the dogs to sniff" routine. It must have worked; when David came home on October 15, the first think Spike did was kiss/lick David all over his baby head.

And, so, the six of us became a happy family unit. We were lucky enough to surround ourselves with wonderful friends and neighbors who were all too willing to tend to the dogs when we were out of town. On two occasions (before Lager came along), Spike flew with me cross country. On one trip, he almost escaped his travel carrier and attempted to make a break for it on a United Airlines flight bound for Los Angeles. I was fortunate to be surrounded by fellow passengers who loved dogs, and flight attendants who were very patient. And Spike and I were car mates when we moved back to California; Glen and Lager drove in the truck, and Spike was my faithful companion in my Jeep, as we saw America together.

With such a faithful, jolly and spunky presence in our lives for so many years, we knew that the time would come when Spike would begin to slow down and actually show his age. He turned 16 in November 2011. And, since the beginning of 2012, his failing health really began to take a toll on him. The kindly veterinarian who looked over him most recently determined that Spike had an inoperable brain tumor which was causing diabetes, glaucoma, and a neurological degeneration in his back and hind legs. Unfortunately, we knew that the time had come for us to say goodbye to our beloved first baby.

But, not without one last photo shoot! Elizabeth and David and I took every advantage in this last week of Spike's life to pose with him and capture, on digital film, his merry personality and his unshakable joie de vivre.

Spike strikes a pose

Charming Grandma Josie one last time

Sweet face

His smile always said it all

A boy and his dog

Spike doesn't see (or hear) Elizabeth plowing around the corner on the Plasma Car

David and Spike

Saying goodbye

Our final picture

At 9:00 a.m. on Friday, April 27, Spike crossed the Rainbow Bridge. Glen and I held him the whole time.

I love you, Spike.

Daily reminders of little miracles

As I compose this long overdue posting to my blog, I am content hearing in the background the sound of the two sweetest little voices in the whole wide world. David and Elizabeth are busily playing school (or is it cards? or Candyland?) in the hallway. Honey, our new kitty, is munching happily away on her evening can of cat vittles, and the dogs, I think, are lounging lazily downstairs.

I stayed home from work today to give myself a day's rest to recuperate from a bit of oral surgery on Friday. The pain is very manageable, but the swelling makes me look like I'm storing small acorns in my cheeks for the winter. Spending the better part of my day with my feet up and my head down was a good thing.

When I finally arose at around 4:30 this afternoon, got the cobwebs out of my head and ran a comb through my hair before getting the kids from school, I sat at my computer to check in on email to and learn of the latest disturbing news of the world as posted on CNN. It was at this moment when I reminded, once again, that kismet exists, and that God, in his/her mysterious way, intervenes at just the right moment.

I was about to click on a CNN  link to read the story of the horrible massacre of 45 women and children in Syria, when my cell phone rang. It was one of Elizabeth's teachers.

"Janel?" she said, "Elizabeth wants to talk to you!"
"Oh, okay! Please put her on!," I replied, hoping that Elizabeth wasn't terribly ill, injured or otherwise.

A pause, a shuffle of the phone receiver, and then, "MOMMY????"

It was my Lizzy, with her sweet little voice sounding shaken and sad.

"Hi, Punkie! What's up?"

"Mommy, I miss you!" Elizabeth cried.

I listened to those four words. I looked at my computer screen, with the Syrian story glaring me in the face.

Her teacher got back on the phone, and explained that Elizabeth indicated she had a tummy ache and had a bit of (ahem) tummy trouble earlier in the afternoon. I told her, "I'm on my way. Right now."

I was out the door in four minutes. While I can't help the poor little angels in Syria whose lives were cut unbearably short over the weekend, I could help a small, almost five-year-old little girl who missed her momma and wanted nothing more than a hug from me.

Elizabeth was feeling well enough to go out to dinner tonight to support the monthly dinner fundraiser that is held for her school at a local Mexican restaurant. While we were there, I learned from another friend of mine of the very sudden and unexpected death of a former co-worker from Scripps. She was my age, has two young kids (middle- and high-school aged), and had been at Scripps for years. We have no idea what happened. I assume the worst.

And I am so lucky that I still get to hug my kids and, currently, listen to David give Elizabeth a drum concert while she practices counting from 1-100 the third time this evening.

Love and blessings

If I tried to make a living as a professional, full-time blogger, I'd be terrible at it. Case in point: it has been over a month since my last musing.

But this one is just in time for Valentine's Day. And on this upcoming day of love, I will herewith pay homage to children. And not just my children, mind you. All children.

What has given me great pause lately (not to mention chills, an upset stomach, and tremendous feelings of abject anger) has been the plethora of news stories we've been hearing about how little kids are mistreated by the very persons entrusted with caring for them. Should you, gentle reader, need reminding, I am referring, of course, to the disgusting stories we're hearing coming from local elementary schools, major research universities, and multiple venues in between.

What I realize I can't do is protect each and every little person out there. My God, how I wish I could. If there were a way to have a big enough home in which I could gather every child who was ever subject to such horrific abuses that we've all had the displeasure of hearing about, hug them, feed them toast and hot cocoa, love them and keep them safe, warm, protected and secure until their families and other adults in their lives got their respective acts together, I would. But I can't.

What I can do, though, is send meditative thoughts out into the universe and breath silent prayers that, at that very moment, each child who is suffering - for whatever reason - is finding peace, is safe, and unharmed. Just at that very moment. And maybe at the next moment.

What I can do is make sure that the little ones in my life know that they are cherished, special, and deserving of respect - from themselves and from others. Take, for example, the wonderful little guys who comprise my son's Cub Scout Wolf Den. Each of them come to our twice-monthly Den meetings with their own assorted amounts of energy, spunk and craziness. While their boundless enthusiasm could make even veteran Scout leaders totally pooped, I am grateful for the fact that pretty much all of them arrive and leave with smiles on their faces.

I look at the beautiful kids who go to school with David and Elizabeth, and whisper quiet prayers that their innocence, charm, wit, and general joie de vivre are never sullied or taken away from them.

I thank God that David and Elizabeth, the two little ones on this earth whose safety, security and health I have the most say about are, in fact, safe, secure and healthy. And I pray that they both know how very much they are entirely, completely and unconditionally loved.

As much as it is haunting and never ceases to leave me breathless, at once in a state of despair and hope, the eloquent poem, "We Pray for Children," by Ina Hughes, is remarkable:

We pray for children

who sneak popsicles before supper,

who erase holes in math workbooks,

who can never find their shoes.

And we pray, for those

who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire,

who can't bound down the street in a new pair of sneakers,

who never "counted potatoes,"

who are born in places where we wouldn't be caught dead,

who never go to the circus,

who live in an X-rated world.

We pray for children

who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions,

Who sleep with the cat and bury goldfish,

Who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money,

Who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink,

Who slurp their soup.

And we pray for those

who never get dessert,

who have no safe blanket to drag behind them,

who watch their parents watch them die,

who can't find any bread to steal,

who don't have any rooms to clean up,

whose pictures aren't on anybody's dresser,

whose monsters are real.

We pray for children

who spend all their allowance before Tuesday,

who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food,

who like ghost stories,

who shove dirty clothes under the bed,

and never rinse out the tub,

who get visits from the tooth fairy,

who don't like to be kissed in front of the carpool,

who squirm in church or temple and scream in the phone,

whose tears we sometimes laugh at

and whose smiles can make us cry.

And we pray for those

whose nightmares come in the daytime,

who will eat anything,

who have never seen a dentist,

who aren't spoiled by anybody,

who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep,

who live and move, but have no being.

We pray for children

who want to be carried

and for those who must,

for those we never give up on

and for those who don't get a second chance.

For those we smother…

and for those who will grab the hand of anybody

kind enough to offer it.

We pray for children.

 

Amen.

 

 

Amen, indeed. 

Resolve

In retrospect, 2011 was a hard year.


While there are, of course, no guarantees that one year will be markedly better than the previous, I am entering 2012 with a great deal of hope and anticipation. Or, maybe it's that I'm just glad to put 2011 in my rear-view mirror.

Glen and the kids and I are well into our second year of the commuter family arrangement that we voluntarily entered in November 2010. It hasn't gotten any easier, but it most certainly has not gotten any worse. Trite though it may sound, I have found that absence truly does make the heart grow fonder, that our time together as a family is much more precious and important, and that while we remain incredibly and impossibly busy regardless of whether we are together or apart, every moment is a gift.

Yes, 2011 was a difficult year; we witnessed friends being diagnosed with terrible illnesses and endure long hospitalizations; we've seen lives taken away at an incredibly young and horribly untimely ages; and, like pretty much everyone else, we're managing our fair share of economic challenges, thanks in no small part to unanticipated car problems and other life expenses. Among these struggles, it's often easy to discount some of the smaller victories that we've been blessed with this year, as well: the kids are in amazing health, love their schools, and (as far as we can tell) are happy, well-adjusted, and bright-eyed. Glen and I are gainfully employed, happy to be working, and very good at what we do. David's musical talents have absolutely exploded; he loves to perform for his friends, he loves his drum and guitar lessons, and his self confidence has grown in tandem with his musical prowess. Elizabeth, it would appear, is ready to jump into the academics and scholarship with the same (if not more) amount of gusto that David did, and celebrates her inner princess/ballerina/diva with tremendous aplomb. More than ever this year, we've been reminded of just how fantastic our friends and neighbors are. And, did I mention that the kids are healthy?

So it is in this spirit that I offer up my short but meaningful list of personal resolutions for 2012. None of them involve anything that will remotely establish lasting world peace, identify a cure for disease, or identify an even modestly reasonable GOP presidential contender. But, with luck, they will make an impact on the people who are most important to me in the whole wide world: Glen, David and Elizabeth.

1. Better living through the $.99 store - No, I'm not kidding. There is much to be gained for clipping coupons, reading the circulars (you know, those newspaper-type things that come in the mail that I typically and indiscriminately toss aside), and hunting for bargains. I'm not looking to save thousands upon thousands of dollars. Rather, I'm just seeking a brand new groove when it comes to how I spend my hard-earned money.

2. Make the house a place I want to hang out in - Glen has often correctly noted that while his idea of relaxing and unwinding is to hang out at the house,  mine is to get out of the house. I admit that I'm a big fan of window shopping and store browsing. But we both find this pattern to be curious. And, relating back to resolution number 1 (see above), it's a pattern that is not necessarily conducive to finding and maintaining economic Zen. So, what is it about the house that I need to change, or alter, in order to make it my own personal get-away? I realized about a week ago, that the layout of our house, and the furniture within it, is such that there is no good place to sit down and kick back within the vicinity of where David and Elizabeth usually play. We have, for example, a pool table in the loft area on our second floor. It's in this space where David and Elizabeth do some of their best playing with Legos, Barbies, etc. Their bedrooms are rather small, so they don't have a whole lot of room for imaginative play. But there's also no space for a comfortable chair for me to sit in and from which I can enjoy my kids enjoying their childhood. We're not sure we're ready to part with the pool table, but Glen and I both know that, if home is where the heart is, then there must be a solution. Do not get me wrong: the fact that we have a roof over our heads, and lovely furnishings within the walls we call our home, is a gift and a blessing. I am grateful for this in and of itself. I need to get to know my own home better, and become one with it.

3. Really, do I NEED to be this busy? - Those who know me well that I am the type who raises my hand to volunteer before the neurons have fully synapsed in my brain and enabled me to consider the consequences of such actions. True, most of the things I volunteer to do tend to be 1) for David and/or for Elizabeth, and 2) ultimately a lot of fun. But the fact that I spend so much time responding to David and Elizabeth's requests to play with a stern, "not now!" or "I don't have time!" or "can't you see I'm busy?!?!?" is not lost on me. It bothers me. I hope that 2012 will be the year in which I find the balance between what absolutely must get done at any given time, and what can wait until later.

4. (Re)consider the food I put into my mouth - While browsing through the January 2012 issue of Real Simple, I came across a write up of the book, The Kind Diet, written by Alicia Silverstone (yes, the actress of "Clueless" fame). While Ms. Silverstone clearly has a social and political agenda (which includes making clear her distrust and dislike of the Dairy Council, the meat and poultry industries, and anything else that has to do with the processing, selling, or consuming of any product that comes from animals), she makes a terrific case for eating more grains, more veggies, more fruits, and more non-meat products. To be fair, it's highly likely that the recipes included in her book are available to Ms. Silverstone primarily because she can afford a personal chef; the ingredients of many are entirely foreign to me. But, when she begins espousing the benefits of a greener diet, she makes sense. So much so that, when Glen and the kids and I went to Elephant Bar with Glen's brother and his two daughters, I found myself looking for menu options that were loaded with green stuff.  It is highly unlikely that 2012 will be the year in which I eschew white flour, cheese, refined sugar, and diet Coke. But it may be the year that I learn to cook with more beans, try a bit of tofu, and put more veggies on David and Elizabeth's plates, regardless of whether or not they eat them. We shall see.

5. Game night at home - Last night, Glen and David and I played two rounds of the classic board game "Clue." Not only had I forgotten how much fun that game is, but I also forgot how nice it is to have an evening that doesn't involve doing homework and laundry, and that has a high entertainment value at NO cost. Now, granted, I can only focus on games on the Wii console for a limited period of time, if for no other reason than this is an activity that Elizabeth is just not quite old enough to engage in (but, OH how she wants to!).

6. Play time - Related to resolutions number 3 and 5 (above), I lament the fact that I've become too old to play with Barbie dolls in the imaginative and carefree way that I could when I was around Elizabeth's age. Back then, I could make up stories and scenarios with my dolls that could entertain me for hours. Now ... not so much. I get way too wrapped up in the mess that these fashion-forward dolls, with their copious accessories, make throughout the house. But, isn't that the point? Are not toys intended for kids to use and go nuts with? And, I'd be fibbing if I were to deny the fact that I still enjoy combing the synthetic hair that is weaved on to each Barbie doll's plastic scalp. That is almost meditative. That, and getting them dressed. I desperately want to chill out about the messes the kids make, and relish the fact that we're giving them a life that enables them to love and cherish their childhood. And I want to relax enough to play with them more.

7. Spend less time on the computer - Yeah, right. For heaven's sake, that's not going to happen.

Santa Claus: Man or Mytth?

It is typical for Glen, the kids and I to put up our Christmas decorations right after the tryptophan-induced coma that comes with the consumption of large quantities of turkey on Thanksgiving Day has worn off. And so it was the case on Friday that Glen retrieved all of our Christmas storage bins from the shelves in the garage, thus heralding another season of Advent for our family.

The kids were particularly eager to get the tree up this weekend. While Glen and I both wanted to wait until everyone was awake, alert, and in the holiday spirit - and not dive in to the project groggy at 8:00 on a Friday night, David and Elizabeth would have none of it. After much negotiation, David and Elizabeth won. Tree trimming was a GO!

And what a splendid tree we have this year! Because we'll be spending most of Christmas week up in the Bay area this year, we decided to decorate the 4-foot tall artificial tree that we've had for several years. This enables us to keep the tree lights on (on a timer, of course) while we're gone and with little risk of setting the house ablaze. David and Elizabeth were in their element. This year, they each took particular interest in the collection of ornaments that have been designated as their very own. Since the time they both arrived on this earth, Glen and I have collected numerous ornaments that are personalized, dated, and significant of any number of milestones in their lives so far. Of course, David has about twice as many ornaments as Elizabeth, but I assured her that she'd catch up in due time. Once the tree was up, Elizabeth insisted in leading us in a prayer to Santa Claus, which included requests for Barbie dolls.

In keeping with our holiday spirit, the kids and I saw the movie "Arthur Christmas" yesterday. What a fantastic movie it was! Well worth the price of admission, and then some. It was such a wonderful story about the true meaning and spirit of Santa Claus and Christmas, with the take-away message that every single child is important. Oh, we just loved it!

But I was not prepared for the philosophical discussion that was about to take place once we returned to the car after the movie was over.

"Mommy," David asked, "do you believe in Santa Claus?"

"Absolutely!" I replied, not adding, "and you're talking to her right now."

"Well," he continued, "some people don't believe in Santa Claus, but I do."

"Me, too!" chimed Elizabeth.

"Mommy?" David asked, "some people say that Santa Claus isn't real."

I didn't answer right away, and I was a bit taken aback by my momentary feeling of conflict. But, I dove back in, and said, "of course he exists. At least, I sure hope so."

"Well," David continued, "some kids say that there is no Santa and that their parents put presents under the tree and just put on the tag that it's from Santa but it's really from the parents. But you wouldn't do that, right?"

Well, yikes. There it was, staring me in the face: the dilemma of how to navigate the Kris Kringle issue. Running through  my brain ever so briefly were the following arguments:

Option #1: Stick with the story. The kids are little; they still believe in the magic of Christmas; they still have beautiful imaginations that don't need to be jaded and squashed so early; they deserve to have the reassurance that Christmas is about miracles, magic, reindeer, Santa, and snow (well, the latter would be more applicable were we still in Chicago).

Option #2: Fess up. Lying is bad.

After a thoughtful, well-argued five-second debate took place deep within the confines of my brain, I went with ... Option #1.

Now, that is not to say that, come Christmas Eve, I will attempt to recreate the sound of reindeer hooves on the roof of our apartment in Newark. But David and Elizabeth will indeed have a present from Santa - not mommy and daddy, but SANTA - under the tree on December 25.

God and David

On Sunday evening, Glen and the kids and I made good on our weekly tradition of driving to Ontario Airport. Indeed, it was to drop Glen off at Terminal 2 and see him off to his new work week.

Sunday evenings seem to be particularly difficult for David. Once we get home from the airport, and the kids are tucked into bed, there is something about the darkness and quiet of the evening that, to my little boy, starts to get a little spooky. More than once, David's Sunday evening tuck-in ends with him in tears, and me with little to no clue as to how to manage it.

Usually, on such evenings, David simply and understandably laments the fact that Daddy - his hero, his buddy, and his Lego partner - is up north once again. David often ponders our options. "I want to live where Daddy is," David will often say, "but I love Foothill!" More than once, David has said flatly, "I'm very conflicted."

And, so it was that on this past Sunday evening, David the Brave was bummed out. Within about five minutes of kissing him goodnight and heading to my desk in our home office to do a bit of work, I heard a little voice call out, "Mommy? Can I talk to you?"

I was a bit taken aback; David has never started a conversation with, "can I talk to you." I was at once flattered and a bit worried.

So, of course, I went right to his room, and sat down on the edge of his bed. I stroked his hair, and said, "what's up, sweetie?"

He hesitated and stammered a bit, but then said, "I don't know if you'll believe me but ... but ..."

"Tell me what's up, Punkie. Tell me anything! Go for it, buddy!"

David continued, "something in my heart tells me that Daddy's in trouble."

Of course, by that time, MY heart was getting concerned. I took a quick glance at the clock in David's room, and mentally noted that Glen was probably boarding the plane at that time.

"Do you mean in trouble for being on the plane?" I asked.

"Uh huh," he said with a very shaky voice. "I just ... I just feel like something is wrong. I know that I just feel more bad right now because I really miss Daddy," David cried. "But my heart is beating so fast and I'm just worried that he's not safe."

And this is where the amazing part of our conversation started:

"And I know," David said, "that God is watching me and knows that I'm worried."

One word came to mind. WOW.

"Well," I said, trying to say something comforting, genuine, and respectful of David's real worry, "I know that God is watching over all of us! That's the great thing about Him"

And thus began a 20-minute discussion about God, Jesus, and how David might get to understand the lessons that they teach. I decided at that moment to multi-task, and so I pulled out the Cub Scout Wolf Handbook, and flipped to the section on "Duty to God" (or Achievement 11, for those of you in the know).

David and I talked about Faith - what it means to be faithful, what faith is, and who we know that shows a true spirit of faith in their actions. I believe the name of Santa Claus was dropped once or twice.

He studied the pages in the Handbook that showed all of the different emblems of the Scouts Religious Emblems program. He wanted to know what each and every one was. We came to the emblem for our faith, Christian (or, Episcopalian, to be more specific), which is a crest with a red cross on a white field,, with the words "God and Me" etched at the top.

"David," I asked, "would you be interested in doing the religious emblem program? It's entirely up to you."

"Yes!" he said quickly. "I really, really believe in God and Jesus!" (how much more sincere and innocent and wonderful could that be?)

So, I promised him that the next day I'd send an email to our priest at Church of the Ascension, to ask if the Church does the Boy Scout's God and Me program.

By the end of our chat, David had calmed down considerably. I stepped out briefly to check the status of Glen's flight at Southwest's website, and confirmed that they were boarding.

"David, I will keep an eye on the status of Daddy's flight, and I PROMISE to let you know when he's landed safely."

"Even if I'm asleep?" he asked. "You WILL wake me up, right?"

"Right." At that moment, too, I sent a brief mental prayer to the God of Airplanes and Flight Travel, requesting, in short that Glen be safe and secure on his flight, and reminded the God of Airplanes and Flight Travel that tonight would be a REALLY BAD night for Glen's plane to have any technical malfunctions. "Please, not tonight, of all nights," I quietly whispered.

By 10:30 p.m., Glen's flight had indeed safely touched the tarmac at Oakland International Airport. I tiptoed into David's room to announce the news.

"David ... David? Sweetie ...? Hello ...?" I said, shaking him gently by the shoulder. No dice. My little angel was fast asleep, finally calm, and dreaming contentedly. But, still, I whispered to him, "Daddy landed! He's safe and sound. All is well, sweetie."

I breathed another quick prayer to the Heavens, in which I simply said, "thank you!"

Adventures of an Eight Year Old

Today, my first born, my original baby (if you don't count Spike, my first pooch), the little person who officially made me a "mommy," turns 8. I am filled with both incredible pride and joy and wonder at the amazing little person he has become, and a slight tinge of longing for those delicious months when he was still small enough to pick up with one hand.

David was born at approximately 9:40 pm at Cedars Sinai Medical Center on October 13, 2003. He shared his birthday with my dear friend, Robert Lee, who is one of my closest friends from high school. David is small, but mighty, and BIG on personality! If my musings and bragging on earlier blog posts have given no indication, I'm incredibly proud to be his mommy.

David's entrance into the world was, of course, sprinkled with flair. I awoke very early the morning of October 13 (a Monday), having to pee. This, of course, was not an unusual occasion by any means, given that pregnant ladies have to pee all the time. However, this time was, in fact, a bit odd. In my groggy stupor, I noticed that, well ... I kept on peeing. And peeing. And peeing. And, I thought, "Hmm. I wonder why this is? Maybe I have a really full bladder."

Then it occurred to me: my bag of water might have broken. Or, more to the point, the little person inside of me, whose gender at the time was unknown to anyone, had just busted it open.

So, I did what any practical, data-driven, research-oriented person would do. I went to my computer and Googled, "bag of water breaking symptoms."

Within 30 seconds, I had my diagnosis. It was time to act.

I padded back over to the bed where Glen, bless him, was still in blissful slumber.

"Rise and shine, dude! It's time! My bag of water just broke."

A pause.

"H...hh...huh??" he replied, still pretty much out cold.

"Let's roll. It's on."

That was all it took. Glen instantly sprang into action, suddenly and very much wide awake. My suitcase for the hospital was about 80% packed, so getting my last items together was not a problem. I made my self presentable while Glen fed the dogs and let them out for one more nature break, and we loaded up into my old Jeep. We were off. It wasn't even 4:30 am.

Within two hours, I'd called my wonderful friend and assistant at Scripps, told her to cancel my meetings because I was in labor ("you're kidding me, right?" she said), and was hooked up to a pitocin drip to induce labor. My sister and mom arrived soon after, and then we waited.

Fourteen hours, and one epidural later, a beautiful baby boy was in my arms. And, my goodness, he was sweet, tiny, and had the most beautiful strawberry blond hair I'd ever seen. Because Glen and I had opted not to find out the gender of our first born, it was like opening a present at Christmas. And, perhaps most importantly, he looked like a wee version of my dad, also named David, who'd passed away three years earlier.

Glen and I had been going back and forth on what to name the baby, and had a bit of trouble coming to a firm and set decision on a boy's name. Were it a girl, that was easy: Elizabeth was set (but, as we later learned, she'd be coming along three years later). We'd tentatively agreed on Michael, which met our standards for something traditional, classic, and a tad Biblical. But, when my new little boy was placed in my arms, and his little blue eyes popped open, the name decision had been named for me. With feet still in stirrups, I motioned Glen to me, and whispered, "I HAVE to name him David! Please, please, please, please!!!!!" Now, Glen is a wise and practical man. He knows better than to argue with a woman who is immediately post partum is still in a compromising position on the gurney. "No problem!" Glen replied like a champ. And, thus, David Thomas Hastings came to be.

Eight years later, David is all boy. He runs around the house, skipping, jumping, turning, leaping and basically just happily spazzing out, all the time. It's no secret that his current passion is drumming, and can happily spend time banging on his junior drum set, teaching himself new rhythms or practicing the ones he learned at his weekly lesson. His culinary pallet is expanding, and he's more likely to try new foods now than he was even a year ago. He is an amazing big brother to Elizabeth, and serves as her guide, defender, negotiator, and, on occasion, sparring partner. He gets his easy-going demeanor from Glen, and his moments of anxiety from me. He loves school, his friends, and (thank you, God) math. He can construct pretty much any Lego set. Any.

I simply could not ask for a more wonderful son.