These are the words that melted my heart tonight. These are the words that make me know what I am here for. These are the words that send me right back to an eleven year old girl to scoop her up in my arms and tell her--again--how much I love her. These are the words that not so long ago seemed a bit inconvenient at times...how could I have been so wrong.
WARNING: If you couldn't tell--Sappy Post Follows!
I just finished putting a child to bed. A precious little eleven year old girl who was the best surprise of my and my family's life, a girl who still seems so tiny to me and yet it's as if I am watching her grow every minute of every day at a pace that makes me want to scream for time to stop, a girl who is oblivious to anything but the very best the world around her offers, a girl who, for some inexplicable reason and without her knowing it, has taught me the value of being a mom.
Like I said, there was a time when hearing "Please lay down with me five more minutes mom..." resulted in me thinking things along the lines of, "oh my gosh, I have got to get that laundry off my bed...when am I ever going to get the rest of the bills paid...those dishes are never going to get done...if I lay down for five minutes I will be the one falling asleep."
Not any more. I'd take everyone of those times back now if I could. It's not to say that I now have undying attentiveness toward my children at every waking moment. Anyone who knows me knows that to not be the case. However, I would bet a kid or two on the fact that anyone who has known me for very long would also say I am not the same mom I was thirteen years ago when my oldest child was eleven. I may not even be as attentive as often as I was with my other children. BUT my attentiveness is finely tuned, sharpened to a fault and hones in on far fewer trivialities than in the past. Now let's get something straight right now--I deeply love each and every one of my children equally and in a way that only a parent can know...yes, I would stand in front of a moving train for any one of them...well....yeah...I think I would do that. Anyhow, from here on out it goes without saying that I do not love one child more than any other, nor do I value one's existence more than any other. However, with every child, and with every year of motherhood comes more and more enlightenment.
Enlightenment for me tonight was thinking about tonight being next year's tonight, when "my baby" would be entering a school of a thousand strangers. I mentioned that to her (not the "stranger" part, for pete's sake!) and she shared her hesitation; it being a little "scary". I assured her it wouldn't be (at least not nearly as much as it would be for her mother this time next year!), and that I shouldn't have even brought it up because tomorrow she would be Top Dog at her elementary! How exciting. How comforting. How...sad.
Yep, this is a downer, but I got so sad thinking about this next year being (another) last for me. We will have been in attendance at Jarman Elementary for eighteen years. Yes, eighteen years. OK, if I must be totally honest, our family was not represented one of those eighteen years. Only one, the other seventeeen we had full representation of at least one child and sometimes two. Seventeen Meet the Teacher days, seventeen Back To School Nights, seventeen PTA sign-ups, seventeen volunteer forms, seventeen First Days of School and seventeen Last Days of School. Not to mention all the other activities year in and year out over this span of time. As much as I have teased about it, it has been one of the most rewarding, fullfilling experiences of my life, and certainly my kids' lives. So the thought of this being the last year made me cry.
I don't want all my kids to be out there in the big, fat, scary world. I don't want to be looked at funny when I bring their lunch up to the school for the sixth time even though I've told them I will never do that again. I don't want to be a parent of a student ID#. I don't want them to learn about sex, drugs and rock and roll. (ok, we have already had some of those discussions, but in Leave It To Beaver land here it is a bit different than the Land of Reality coming up). I don't want this to be the end of these wonderful, wonderful times.
For all you who know me well enough to know how sappy this all is---you'd better watch out for me...Good Lord, I even mentioned homeschooling! I mean, can you imagine??! When my other kids would start complaining about their school, or the classes or the teachers, that was all I had to say..."well, you knowwwww, I could always homeschool you". I'd say it in the sincerest tone with all the motherly compassion I could possibly muster up. "Uh, nope...no thanks...it will be fine...uh, I can work this out...really...no problem mom, don't worry about it...really". Yep, that's all it would take.
Well guess what...guess who said, "you know, I might want to do that next year mom"! Most amazing part was I thought "oh thank goodness, there's just got to be some good homeschooling websites...maybe even a facebook group".
Alrighty, so clearly this isn't so much about her. It's about me.
It's about the great (and often not-so-great) life of Mom-dom. The ups, the downs, the unepected curve balls. It's about the most valuable and noble and honest and gut-wrenching and spectacular "profession" in the world. Some would say I need a life. I strongly disagree. I have such a full and blessed life that I can't imagine filling it with anything else. That's the problem...I can't imagine. I can't imagine filling it with different things.. I can't imagine what it will be like not walking into that elementary next year and seeing those familiar (seasoned) friendly faces, not getting to know the less familiar (youthful) but equally friendly "newbies", not having my daughter at a school where everyone knows her, knows who she is and what she's like.
You know what it is, it's that I simply can't imagine what The Plan is. That's what this boils down to. I guess a lot of it really isn't my call. I mean, what's He cooking up for me...or us? I know He's not cruel; I know He's got a sense of humor; and I know He's got a plan. I try and do the right thing, I try and think about how things will effect these kids of mine, I think I'm on the right track most times. I guess the "not knowing for sure" part is the part that's supposed to make it all more exciting--make us try and do our very best. However, instead, I find myself looking back and thinking how much I've learned, how many "if I knew then, what I know now"s I have, how valuable my job has really been and how serious a job it is.
But right now I'm just wallowing in the bittersweet moments of this "final" year. I'm hoping that eleven year old girl will ask me to lay down with her five more minutes this time next year too.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
WARNING TO FUTURE SON-IN-LAW
So, we're leaving for vacation in 35 hours. No, I'm not packed. This is far more important. As noted in a previous post, my daughter is getting married. Her wonderful fiance is coming with us. The car ride is 14 hours long. We are not that bad of a family, but we are a family. I felt obligated to send him the following:
Hello Dear Future Son-In-Law!
I am writing this to let you know how excited I am for next week AND that you are coming! I know Sam is excited ;-) Now, as your mother-in-law to be I would be remiss to not inform you of the situation you are about to enter. Let me start by saying that you will see Biddicks at their best, and you will surely see Biddicks at their worst…hopefully not their very worse. These are the things you need to be fully prepared to witness and deal with: cramped legs from an exhaustingly long car ride; arguments over music, movies, personal space and seat arrangement; whining about driver—regardless of who the driver is; there will be personal character attacks, accusations and bold-face lying; there will be few stops associated with anything besides “necessity”; and there could be foul odors, all of which will likely be blamed on the “new guy”…you. That’s just the car ride.
When we get there, there will be discussion on where and how to park; the best method of unpacking the car; who should be carrying what; there should be some critique and complaining about something to do with our accommodations; there will rarely be a time when everyone is hungry or tired all at the same time; there could be outright yelling matches and perhaps even a slap or two (however this is unlikely—but always possible); there will be periodic foul language; there will be nagging regarding “helping”; disagreements on activities, food, and, again, seating arrangements; there will be races for the bathroom and lines waiting for the bathroom; and there will be the proverbial “time-out” for various individuals. And, you my dear get to be in on all of that!
Having forewarned you of said “issues”, I will now let you in on some other less distasteful things that may or may not happen. There could be some type of minor catastrophe that pulls everyone together in a very interesting and comical way (i.e., losing only pair of prescription glasses in ocean, car breaking down, allergic reaction to jelly fish stings), there will likely be some decent enough food; very likely game-playing will occur several times; a good and healthy amount of chastising, teasing, mimicking and ribbing will occur; reading, laying and/or sitting around doing nothing, sunbathing, ocean romping, beach walking will all occur; 89 trips to Publix will be made for the BEST Light Caesar Salad Dressing on the planet and other various “forgotten” items; inordinate amounts of time will be spent at the corner junk (a/k/a – souvenir) shops finding just the right t-shirt; more games will be played; more beach time; more laying around will be done and lots and lots of laughing, cajoling, smiling and more laughing…hopefully!
At least that’s the idea for these fun-filled family adventures. We’ll see. But, we’re all really glad you’re coming! And I, by no means want to scare you off, but I did want to make sure that you had the opportunity to come down with a mysterious terrible communicable disease, just in case it all sounds too crazy and kind of scary! I’m guessing you won’t cause you’re a stand-up guy and all. But I sure hope you still like us when it’s all over!!
Looking forward to our week and really glad you are joining us!
Stephanie
It's like a bad test where set-ups to fail are everywhere. I really don't expect him to be the one taking the test...it's more like "us" taking the test...and poor daughter! We'll do our best though. I know he'll be fine, but maybe I should have waited to buy the dress AFTER this, just in case!
Hello Dear Future Son-In-Law!
I am writing this to let you know how excited I am for next week AND that you are coming! I know Sam is excited ;-) Now, as your mother-in-law to be I would be remiss to not inform you of the situation you are about to enter. Let me start by saying that you will see Biddicks at their best, and you will surely see Biddicks at their worst…hopefully not their very worse. These are the things you need to be fully prepared to witness and deal with: cramped legs from an exhaustingly long car ride; arguments over music, movies, personal space and seat arrangement; whining about driver—regardless of who the driver is; there will be personal character attacks, accusations and bold-face lying; there will be few stops associated with anything besides “necessity”; and there could be foul odors, all of which will likely be blamed on the “new guy”…you. That’s just the car ride.
When we get there, there will be discussion on where and how to park; the best method of unpacking the car; who should be carrying what; there should be some critique and complaining about something to do with our accommodations; there will rarely be a time when everyone is hungry or tired all at the same time; there could be outright yelling matches and perhaps even a slap or two (however this is unlikely—but always possible); there will be periodic foul language; there will be nagging regarding “helping”; disagreements on activities, food, and, again, seating arrangements; there will be races for the bathroom and lines waiting for the bathroom; and there will be the proverbial “time-out” for various individuals. And, you my dear get to be in on all of that!
Having forewarned you of said “issues”, I will now let you in on some other less distasteful things that may or may not happen. There could be some type of minor catastrophe that pulls everyone together in a very interesting and comical way (i.e., losing only pair of prescription glasses in ocean, car breaking down, allergic reaction to jelly fish stings), there will likely be some decent enough food; very likely game-playing will occur several times; a good and healthy amount of chastising, teasing, mimicking and ribbing will occur; reading, laying and/or sitting around doing nothing, sunbathing, ocean romping, beach walking will all occur; 89 trips to Publix will be made for the BEST Light Caesar Salad Dressing on the planet and other various “forgotten” items; inordinate amounts of time will be spent at the corner junk (a/k/a – souvenir) shops finding just the right t-shirt; more games will be played; more beach time; more laying around will be done and lots and lots of laughing, cajoling, smiling and more laughing…hopefully!
At least that’s the idea for these fun-filled family adventures. We’ll see. But, we’re all really glad you’re coming! And I, by no means want to scare you off, but I did want to make sure that you had the opportunity to come down with a mysterious terrible communicable disease, just in case it all sounds too crazy and kind of scary! I’m guessing you won’t cause you’re a stand-up guy and all. But I sure hope you still like us when it’s all over!!
Looking forward to our week and really glad you are joining us!
Stephanie
It's like a bad test where set-ups to fail are everywhere. I really don't expect him to be the one taking the test...it's more like "us" taking the test...and poor daughter! We'll do our best though. I know he'll be fine, but maybe I should have waited to buy the dress AFTER this, just in case!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Downhill, On Wheels
Some of you are going to think that because of my recent posts inferring my less than perky and attentive demeanor of late, that I am making this next one up. Maybe someone out there can vouch for this to verify that, in fact, I am not. Yesterday, in one of my many, many miles of driving, I was headed west on 71st Street. I've lived here a long time. I remember when 71st was truly "out in the country". I've seen 71st Street grow and grow and reshape in different sections. I've seen a lot of weird stuff on 71st Street before. I've seen weird stuff that was temporary and gone by the time I drove back by ten minutes later and I've seen weird semi-permanent stuff that's lingered for days, sometimes weeks. But to date, in my nearly 49 years of off and on living in this town, I have never, EVER seen a guy (whom I will refrain from calling "Jesus") walking down 71st carrying a cross on wheels.
Yep, I saw it with my own eyes. There were many things about it that I found terribly interesting, but my first thought was, "my gosh, I need to pull over and find out what the heck this guy is doing and does he need a hand". Honestly! That was my first thought and I got tickled thinking how that conversation might go:
"Sir....SIRRRR....Yes, YOU sir....you with the cross...yeah, could you hold on a sec" (he was moving at quite some pace--I decided it was not so much that he was in a hurry as it was that he was going downhill and carrying the most massive cross I've ever seen). "...uh, sir, uh..do you need a hand with that?" (well, DUH! He's carrying a CROSS--a big, heavy cross...of course he needs a hand with it!) Or should it be "excuse me sir, but what on God's green earth are you doing?" (clearly, the answer is: Carrying a cross down the street)
I didn't stop. I gawked as best as one can gawk going 40 mph. Here's the visual: Caucasian male, approximately mid-to-late 30's, blue jeans, t-or polo type shirt, shorter light brown hair. The guy is walking on the north side of Sheridan headed east. And, well, he's carrying a cross. Now before we go any further please let me disclose that I am a full-fledged cross supporter. Truly--I have no cross issues. It's just not every day when you see a cross of this magnitude. It appeared to be made out of wood. Based on how far it was dragging behind it's bearer, it was about ten feet long. The crossbars were square block-like construction about 6x6 inches thick. At the bottom of the cross was a set of wheels.
Wheels you say? Yes, wheels. Nice sturdy rubber wheels. Herein lies my perplexity with the scene unfolding before me. I know a little about the "Real Cross-Carrying Dude". I know He was pretty worn out before even being forced to carry His cross. I know He did this somewhat unwillingly, or at least with grave hesitation. I know His cross was not quite so finely sawn. And I, absolutely, without one teeny tiny doubt, know His cross had no wheels. Nope, not even one rickety one. Not even an itty bitty wheel. No wheels, no where, no how.
So this brings me to my possible question above...what in the world is this guy-with-cross doing? What is he trying to say? Trying to prove? What is his motivation? Well, I'm going to be generous in my theory of this situation. Of the above-mentioned Cross facts I know, I'm giving 71st Street TCG (Tulsa Cross Guy) huge benefit of the doubt and I'm offering him three...yes, THREE of the above mentioned similarities:
Perhaps TCG was tired. Maybe he'd had a really bad day before, exhausted from work pressures, overwhelmed with life's curveballs. Heck, maybe he'd even been beat up a little. Who knows. Again, just trying to give benefit of the doubt here.
In some weird way, maybe he was being forced to do this. Maybe TCG felt his calling was to cross carry down 71st Street. Maybe someone was blackmailing him. Maybe he lost a bet. Again, no way to tell for certain, but it could be entirely possible that he was in no way a willing participant in all this. (Not quite sure how one would prove that, but we'll go with it being a possibility)
Finely sawn wood is what I believe TCG's cross wood was, but I've got to give an out on two counts here. Maybe TCG's cross was prickly and splintering and rough. It very well could have been. Remember, gawking at 40 mph does not necessarily give you the most accurate perception. Or, and I find this far more unlikely, could it be that MFCG's (Most Famous Cross Guy's) cross had been sanded down a touch. Maybe there was a sympathetic follower who smoothed out some of the rough edges as a form of compassion. I should probably know this one, but I don't. Regardless, I'm giving TCG the benefit of the doubt here also.
BUT WHEELS??? Nope, NO WAY MFCG definately did not have wheels on the cross He beared. No discussion, no questioning, no doubt.
So that leads us to exactly what is TCG trying to say? I think we must assume that he, in some way, is trying to emulate MFCG. I'm guessing there is some statement of "...man, can you believe MFCG did this way back when?", or maybe it's more "please know that there was this guy who's done this before". But context??? Could we have a little context please? I mean I believe, have faith in and fully acknowledge MFCG life and death and the redemption I believe comes from that. But for those who are a little less faithful, perhaps, no faith at all or maybe even totally clueless to the whole cross thing, then this could have been just a smidge confusing, dontcha think? And, if you are trying to sway the masses, wouldn't you try a bit more authenticity? Maybe a robe of some sort. Some sandals? Longer hair. Rougher terrain. And yeah TCG--ditch the wheels.
I mean...come onnnnnn. You have got to be kidding! WHEELS? If the whole cross thing wasn't enough, then the wheels just sent the whole deal into "uh-huh" mode. I ain't believin' anything you got to say dude. No pain, no gain. In fact the more I think about it, the more I think this was insulting. What a cheat. I guess if MFCG isn't your deal, then the wheels seem logical;
"I'm going to go out in Tulsa today and try and prove some insane point and, hey...I know...I think I'm going to carry a giant cross to help prove that whacked out point of mine. But man...that cross thing is gonna be a drag to carry around...HEY PHIL...Phil, you got any small wheels in your shop? You mind putting some on my big giant cross here? That'll make it a whole lot easier to lug around today"
But to me it's like saying "yeah, see this little kitty, it's really a mean tiger" or "hey, wanna go work out?" and you meet at the icecream shop instead or "I want to tell you a story about Cinderella, but she's really an heiress when she starts out." It's bastardizing the story. It's saying I want to tell you about something really special, something I really believe in, but you know...I want to leave out all the tough parts. I don't want it to be so hard for me to tell, and I sure hope you get the point.
It is entirely possible that I am making too much out of Tulsa Cross Guy. At first I thought, how odd. Maybe he needed a job. Maybe this was his way of making 71st Street drivers think about Most Famous Cross Guy that day. It made me think about it. And then I wondered if those wheels got going very quickly down that really steep hill if TCG would stumble, fall into traffic and get run over. Nahhhh, I think even MFCG would save him from that peril. In an odd sort of way I'm glad that the real MOST FAMOUS CROSS GUY didn't have wheels. No doubt wheels would have been nice--but I think it would have changed up His story a bit.
Yep, I saw it with my own eyes. There were many things about it that I found terribly interesting, but my first thought was, "my gosh, I need to pull over and find out what the heck this guy is doing and does he need a hand". Honestly! That was my first thought and I got tickled thinking how that conversation might go:
"Sir....SIRRRR....Yes, YOU sir....you with the cross...yeah, could you hold on a sec" (he was moving at quite some pace--I decided it was not so much that he was in a hurry as it was that he was going downhill and carrying the most massive cross I've ever seen). "...uh, sir, uh..do you need a hand with that?" (well, DUH! He's carrying a CROSS--a big, heavy cross...of course he needs a hand with it!) Or should it be "excuse me sir, but what on God's green earth are you doing?" (clearly, the answer is: Carrying a cross down the street)
I didn't stop. I gawked as best as one can gawk going 40 mph. Here's the visual: Caucasian male, approximately mid-to-late 30's, blue jeans, t-or polo type shirt, shorter light brown hair. The guy is walking on the north side of Sheridan headed east. And, well, he's carrying a cross. Now before we go any further please let me disclose that I am a full-fledged cross supporter. Truly--I have no cross issues. It's just not every day when you see a cross of this magnitude. It appeared to be made out of wood. Based on how far it was dragging behind it's bearer, it was about ten feet long. The crossbars were square block-like construction about 6x6 inches thick. At the bottom of the cross was a set of wheels.
Wheels you say? Yes, wheels. Nice sturdy rubber wheels. Herein lies my perplexity with the scene unfolding before me. I know a little about the "Real Cross-Carrying Dude". I know He was pretty worn out before even being forced to carry His cross. I know He did this somewhat unwillingly, or at least with grave hesitation. I know His cross was not quite so finely sawn. And I, absolutely, without one teeny tiny doubt, know His cross had no wheels. Nope, not even one rickety one. Not even an itty bitty wheel. No wheels, no where, no how.
So this brings me to my possible question above...what in the world is this guy-with-cross doing? What is he trying to say? Trying to prove? What is his motivation? Well, I'm going to be generous in my theory of this situation. Of the above-mentioned Cross facts I know, I'm giving 71st Street TCG (Tulsa Cross Guy) huge benefit of the doubt and I'm offering him three...yes, THREE of the above mentioned similarities:
Perhaps TCG was tired. Maybe he'd had a really bad day before, exhausted from work pressures, overwhelmed with life's curveballs. Heck, maybe he'd even been beat up a little. Who knows. Again, just trying to give benefit of the doubt here.
In some weird way, maybe he was being forced to do this. Maybe TCG felt his calling was to cross carry down 71st Street. Maybe someone was blackmailing him. Maybe he lost a bet. Again, no way to tell for certain, but it could be entirely possible that he was in no way a willing participant in all this. (Not quite sure how one would prove that, but we'll go with it being a possibility)
Finely sawn wood is what I believe TCG's cross wood was, but I've got to give an out on two counts here. Maybe TCG's cross was prickly and splintering and rough. It very well could have been. Remember, gawking at 40 mph does not necessarily give you the most accurate perception. Or, and I find this far more unlikely, could it be that MFCG's (Most Famous Cross Guy's) cross had been sanded down a touch. Maybe there was a sympathetic follower who smoothed out some of the rough edges as a form of compassion. I should probably know this one, but I don't. Regardless, I'm giving TCG the benefit of the doubt here also.
BUT WHEELS??? Nope, NO WAY MFCG definately did not have wheels on the cross He beared. No discussion, no questioning, no doubt.
So that leads us to exactly what is TCG trying to say? I think we must assume that he, in some way, is trying to emulate MFCG. I'm guessing there is some statement of "...man, can you believe MFCG did this way back when?", or maybe it's more "please know that there was this guy who's done this before". But context??? Could we have a little context please? I mean I believe, have faith in and fully acknowledge MFCG life and death and the redemption I believe comes from that. But for those who are a little less faithful, perhaps, no faith at all or maybe even totally clueless to the whole cross thing, then this could have been just a smidge confusing, dontcha think? And, if you are trying to sway the masses, wouldn't you try a bit more authenticity? Maybe a robe of some sort. Some sandals? Longer hair. Rougher terrain. And yeah TCG--ditch the wheels.
I mean...come onnnnnn. You have got to be kidding! WHEELS? If the whole cross thing wasn't enough, then the wheels just sent the whole deal into "uh-huh" mode. I ain't believin' anything you got to say dude. No pain, no gain. In fact the more I think about it, the more I think this was insulting. What a cheat. I guess if MFCG isn't your deal, then the wheels seem logical;
"I'm going to go out in Tulsa today and try and prove some insane point and, hey...I know...I think I'm going to carry a giant cross to help prove that whacked out point of mine. But man...that cross thing is gonna be a drag to carry around...HEY PHIL...Phil, you got any small wheels in your shop? You mind putting some on my big giant cross here? That'll make it a whole lot easier to lug around today"
But to me it's like saying "yeah, see this little kitty, it's really a mean tiger" or "hey, wanna go work out?" and you meet at the icecream shop instead or "I want to tell you a story about Cinderella, but she's really an heiress when she starts out." It's bastardizing the story. It's saying I want to tell you about something really special, something I really believe in, but you know...I want to leave out all the tough parts. I don't want it to be so hard for me to tell, and I sure hope you get the point.
It is entirely possible that I am making too much out of Tulsa Cross Guy. At first I thought, how odd. Maybe he needed a job. Maybe this was his way of making 71st Street drivers think about Most Famous Cross Guy that day. It made me think about it. And then I wondered if those wheels got going very quickly down that really steep hill if TCG would stumble, fall into traffic and get run over. Nahhhh, I think even MFCG would save him from that peril. In an odd sort of way I'm glad that the real MOST FAMOUS CROSS GUY didn't have wheels. No doubt wheels would have been nice--but I think it would have changed up His story a bit.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Do You KNOW How Cool I Have Just Become?
Getting fancy now!
(read the comment section...yeah, right HERE underneath this sentence, right next to the time...go ahead click "comments" and just see how cool I am now!)
(read the comment section...yeah, right HERE underneath this sentence, right next to the time...go ahead click "comments" and just see how cool I am now!)
Dog Park for People
We just got back from the dog park. Not many dogs were there at all and only one "trouble maker"...always the little dog with "little dog" complex...they are ornery! Opal played HARD! She wanted to play ball with a Golden Retriever who would ONLY retrieve one particular ball. Golden Retriever would chase any ball, but would only retrieve the one large, yellow, squeaky football. Opal decided it would be fun to try and play "take away". Opal quickly changed her mind when Golden Retriever snapped BIG TIME at Opal, the pesky dog trying to steal Golden Retriever's large, yellow, squeaky football--FUN-NEEEEE!
What's also funny and sometimes not so fun-neeeee (I really need to enhance my writing skills) is how people act at the dog park. In the old days when you took your dog to the park, your dog knew it was at a people park and it was to respect the rights of other people and it was going to do what you, its owner told it to--hopefully--plus 99% of the time it had a big shiny silver thick chain around it's neck reminding it of it's place in the people park. Well, at the dog park, the people are supposed to know and respect the rights of other dogs, right? At the people park, the people are supposed to look out for their dogs. At the dog park the dogs look out for their people. But there's always one dog, not so concerned with it's person's reputation.
Case in point...all dogs, like people are different and for the sake of argument, we, as a human and canine beings are to be respectful of those differences. So, if Spot and Blackie are playing and Lucky decides to play too, then Spot and Blackie sort of "decide" whether Lucky gets in the game or not. Now if they decide Lucky passes the sniff test and they are down with Lucky playing, then it's Lucky's lucky day. But let's say they aren't too keen on Lucky's demeanor--for whatever reason...they just don't want to include Lucky. Well in dog world, there is no need for a conference, a sit-down mediation, an intervention...in dog world Spot and Blackie simply don't play with Lucky. Now Lucky has a choice to make here: does Lucky; a. want to force Lucky's self into Spot & Blackie's romp-fest, or b. decide to move on to more inviting rear-end sniffing elsewhere. If Lucky picks "b", then all is well in dog world and at the dog park. But if Lucky picks "a", a multitude of things could happen. Herein lies the problem with "people" at the dog park.
Lucky's owner is usually some person who thinks their Lucky is the most precious animal on God's green earth. Who on earth would not want to play with my sweet little Lucky. Well, Spot and Blackie for one...um, two. I see this all the time in "people" world: at the park, the zoo, the mall, youth sports activities, oh yeah...and at school. I finally had to tell my daughter, "look, we love you. We will stand in front of a freight train to save you. But see those other people out there? They are not nearly as nuts about you as we are and some of them even think it's kind of creepy that you hug everybody. Regardless of your cuteness, you, my dear, are invading their personal space. But remember, you are always welcome to invade ours and we love you no matter what. This is what Lucky's owner needs to convey to Lucky.
But instead, Lucky's owner invariably either watches Lucky running around annoying all the other dogs (again--no acknowledgment of respect for the other dogs), or runs around with Lucky saying things like, "oh...Lucky thinks he's such a big dog", or "hahaha, that Lucky of mine sure never meets a stranger", "oh don't worry, Lucky here just wants to get in the game". About that time Spot or Blackie or some other dog have had just about enough of this annoying intruder, and decide to engage in a little pest control. That generally begins with a quick snap or snarl and perhaps a display of a nice mohawk down the spine. Depending on how obstinate, egotistical or simply dumb Lucky is, Lucky either picks up on it and moves on to more welcoming canine companionship, or, Lucky thinks that perhaps the fun romping game has been ramped up a notch and by golly he can hang "with the big dogs". Hopefully Lucky is not foolish enough to make that mistake, but from what I've observed that is the very thing that makes Lucky the sort of ostracised dog he is. He and his owner just refuse to get that it's just not always about Lucky.
So dogs like Spot, Blackie and others have to take matters into their own hands much the same as we people finally do at our people parks. Hair flies, snarling escallates, teeth gnashing begin and then, once Lucky has been shown his place, his owner generally scoops Lucky up and leaves the park. Owner continues to be clueless as to what all the hub-bub was about and Lucky is insulted at the lack of acceptance by the dog group and vows to never go back there again.
Much like our dogs who wouldn't have any other owner besides their one and only "us", much the same as they have complete and total loyalty to us regardless of our faults and distasteful characteristics, we seem to be the same way with our dogs; bragadocious ("well, you know the Grand Welch Corgi has a proven intellect the same as an above-average intellect of a 38 year old human"), apologetic ("she can hardly help letting people know just how much she is a people dog but you can tell her to get off you lap if you want to"), over-indulgent ("I just have to feed him prime rib when he looks at me with that cute little puppy face") and proud ("nice coat of fur your dog has...Lucky has won three regional competitions for shiniest dog").
What's also funny and sometimes not so fun-neeeee (I really need to enhance my writing skills) is how people act at the dog park. In the old days when you took your dog to the park, your dog knew it was at a people park and it was to respect the rights of other people and it was going to do what you, its owner told it to--hopefully--plus 99% of the time it had a big shiny silver thick chain around it's neck reminding it of it's place in the people park. Well, at the dog park, the people are supposed to know and respect the rights of other dogs, right? At the people park, the people are supposed to look out for their dogs. At the dog park the dogs look out for their people. But there's always one dog, not so concerned with it's person's reputation.
Case in point...all dogs, like people are different and for the sake of argument, we, as a human and canine beings are to be respectful of those differences. So, if Spot and Blackie are playing and Lucky decides to play too, then Spot and Blackie sort of "decide" whether Lucky gets in the game or not. Now if they decide Lucky passes the sniff test and they are down with Lucky playing, then it's Lucky's lucky day. But let's say they aren't too keen on Lucky's demeanor--for whatever reason...they just don't want to include Lucky. Well in dog world, there is no need for a conference, a sit-down mediation, an intervention...in dog world Spot and Blackie simply don't play with Lucky. Now Lucky has a choice to make here: does Lucky; a. want to force Lucky's self into Spot & Blackie's romp-fest, or b. decide to move on to more inviting rear-end sniffing elsewhere. If Lucky picks "b", then all is well in dog world and at the dog park. But if Lucky picks "a", a multitude of things could happen. Herein lies the problem with "people" at the dog park.
Lucky's owner is usually some person who thinks their Lucky is the most precious animal on God's green earth. Who on earth would not want to play with my sweet little Lucky. Well, Spot and Blackie for one...um, two. I see this all the time in "people" world: at the park, the zoo, the mall, youth sports activities, oh yeah...and at school. I finally had to tell my daughter, "look, we love you. We will stand in front of a freight train to save you. But see those other people out there? They are not nearly as nuts about you as we are and some of them even think it's kind of creepy that you hug everybody. Regardless of your cuteness, you, my dear, are invading their personal space. But remember, you are always welcome to invade ours and we love you no matter what. This is what Lucky's owner needs to convey to Lucky.
But instead, Lucky's owner invariably either watches Lucky running around annoying all the other dogs (again--no acknowledgment of respect for the other dogs), or runs around with Lucky saying things like, "oh...Lucky thinks he's such a big dog", or "hahaha, that Lucky of mine sure never meets a stranger", "oh don't worry, Lucky here just wants to get in the game". About that time Spot or Blackie or some other dog have had just about enough of this annoying intruder, and decide to engage in a little pest control. That generally begins with a quick snap or snarl and perhaps a display of a nice mohawk down the spine. Depending on how obstinate, egotistical or simply dumb Lucky is, Lucky either picks up on it and moves on to more welcoming canine companionship, or, Lucky thinks that perhaps the fun romping game has been ramped up a notch and by golly he can hang "with the big dogs". Hopefully Lucky is not foolish enough to make that mistake, but from what I've observed that is the very thing that makes Lucky the sort of ostracised dog he is. He and his owner just refuse to get that it's just not always about Lucky.
So dogs like Spot, Blackie and others have to take matters into their own hands much the same as we people finally do at our people parks. Hair flies, snarling escallates, teeth gnashing begin and then, once Lucky has been shown his place, his owner generally scoops Lucky up and leaves the park. Owner continues to be clueless as to what all the hub-bub was about and Lucky is insulted at the lack of acceptance by the dog group and vows to never go back there again.
Much like our dogs who wouldn't have any other owner besides their one and only "us", much the same as they have complete and total loyalty to us regardless of our faults and distasteful characteristics, we seem to be the same way with our dogs; bragadocious ("well, you know the Grand Welch Corgi has a proven intellect the same as an above-average intellect of a 38 year old human"), apologetic ("she can hardly help letting people know just how much she is a people dog but you can tell her to get off you lap if you want to"), over-indulgent ("I just have to feed him prime rib when he looks at me with that cute little puppy face") and proud ("nice coat of fur your dog has...Lucky has won three regional competitions for shiniest dog").
I'm afraid we will see this scenario play out time and time again. So far, four dog park trips, four "Lucky's" and their owners there. I guess the dogs and the people really aren't so much different from each other. I just hope I can continue to respect all the Spots and Blackies our there, regardless of Opal's vast amount of charm, talent and outstanding demeanor!
Friday, July 24, 2009
Now THIS is EXCITEMENT
I wasn't "allowed" to divulge my exciting news. It happened May 17th. It was a nice and pleasant evening when all the sudden the phone rang...and who could it be but my oldest daughter..
.and what on earth did she have to tell us other than that she was now formally, officially ENGAGED! We weren't even allowed to divulge said information to family members for an entire week so that the newly engaged couple could come tell everyone in person. Do you have any idea how underwhelmed the electrician, nail tech and landscape guy were with my exciting secret?
We couldn't be more happy for her. Of course we had a bit of a head's up on this one since her nearly perfect now-fiance had come to our house a mere two weeks ago (which seemed more like two months to me!) to ask her father's blessing that he be allowed to ask her to marry him. How totally wonderful is that? I wanted to say "sweet", but "sweet" is just not it. "Sweet" is not serious and committed enough. "Sweet" is just cute. This was wonderful, this was responsible, this was, and is serious business. This is the kind of wonderful, marvelous business that makes a mom cry--tears of happiness, tears of joy, and yes, a few bittersweet tears of days gone by.
It's interesting. Do I think these kids of mine are going to morph back into their toddler years again so that I can relive and re"do" any of those
mistakes I may have made? Is it possible that if life did not move forward for them, that I could somehow stop, or even better-reverse time to live those forgotten, unappreciated moments that escaped me? I think that's where the tears come from. They are happy tears. Happy for her. Happy for her happiness. Happy for her determination to make the right choices. But there is a twinge of sadness, of wishing I could go back, stop time, make everything slow down. Had I just known. Had I listened to all those old people who told me that very thing. Had I understood how quickly it would all make sense. Well, coulda, shoulda, woulda's always leave you hanging with that not-quite-finished feeling, but that's life.
Anyhow since the announcement of said engagement I have succeeded in bringing her to tears only once (that I know of and accept responsibility for). We all knew it was coming. We all knew "mom would eventually screw up this happy time" and far be it from me to let everyone down. I did have to have the "are-you-sure-you-MUST-have-this-wedding-only-a-mere-three-weeks-or-so-after-not-one-but-TWO-graduations-and-during-the-most-expensive-oops-i-mean-popular-time-of-year?" talk with both her and her fiance. I gotta say, this guy she's picked is good...he is very, very good! Upon the onset of tears I, of course, felt very guilty (yes, really I did). He sat very composed, listened carefully to my reasoning, nodded his head all the while patting my lovely daughter's leg. When I realized I had nearly reached full "lose 'em" potential, I quickly suggested that the subject be changed, they think about what I had said and we go inside and talk about fun wedding stuff.
Within 48 hours she called and they had thought about it and no, did not want to change their date. OK...alrighty...mom is going to have a little breakdown during her eldest daughters most precious moment in life to date...great...this is great. Quickly, I pulled myself together and thought NO--YOU ARE NOT! You are MOM, you CAN and, more importantly, you WILL do this! You will overcome for the greater good! You will formulate a plan, move into action, you will CONQUER! And with the confidence of a great leader, KAMINSKI-BIDDICK WEDDING TWO THOUSAND AND TEN, kicked into high gear!
To date we have: Secured ceremony venue (our church of course); Met with ceremony planner; Secured reception venue; Met with and secured caterer, baker, photographer, music & chair-bow vendor (a seemingly meaningless, but ever so important detail); Had first round of engagement pictures taken; Composed guest list; Chosen Save-a-Date announcements (ready to be rolled off the press); Decided upon invitations (ready to be rolled off the press); Designed and posted wedding website; Submitted engagement announcement for local newspaper; Purchased miscellaneous favors and bridesmaids gifts; Chosen bridesmaids dresses; hosted a small engagement party; and said YES TO THE DRESS, measured, ordered and paid for!
I can go into immense detail on these fun activities (and I won't unless begged to do so), but suffice it to say the wedding industry is NOT caught up in the economic downturn folks...not! Regardless, the process has been relatively pain-free--no, that is not true, it has been TOTALLY pain-free. I think to both of our surprise and amazement, Sam and I have had the best time doing this together. I cannot really think of anything much more "bonding" than participating in and preparing with your daughter for her most important journey...away from her parents. As mentioned earlier, a very bittersweet and sometimes surreal experience for me, "the mom", but one I wouldn't trade for anything. I am lucky to have an extremely level-headed daughter who has chosen the most magnificent guy on planet earth. Truly, all you girls out there, take lessons from this girl--she calculated cleverly and waited patiently and hit the husband-to-be jackpot! (I have that little fluttery happy feeling just typing that!)
Now having said all that "he's a great guy" stuff. We are embarking on a journey here very soon that will be the most telling of all....Biddick Family Vacation (think Griswolds), complete with all family members packed into the burb for a 14 hour road trip to the beach. THIS will be a true test of said "great guy's" stamina, patience, sense of humor and bladder control. More to come later.
.and what on earth did she have to tell us other than that she was now formally, officially ENGAGED! We weren't even allowed to divulge said information to family members for an entire week so that the newly engaged couple could come tell everyone in person. Do you have any idea how underwhelmed the electrician, nail tech and landscape guy were with my exciting secret?We couldn't be more happy for her. Of course we had a bit of a head's up on this one since her nearly perfect now-fiance had come to our house a mere two weeks ago (which seemed more like two months to me!) to ask her father's blessing that he be allowed to ask her to marry him. How totally wonderful is that? I wanted to say "sweet", but "sweet" is just not it. "Sweet" is not serious and committed enough. "Sweet" is just cute. This was wonderful, this was responsible, this was, and is serious business. This is the kind of wonderful, marvelous business that makes a mom cry--tears of happiness, tears of joy, and yes, a few bittersweet tears of days gone by.
It's interesting. Do I think these kids of mine are going to morph back into their toddler years again so that I can relive and re"do" any of those
mistakes I may have made? Is it possible that if life did not move forward for them, that I could somehow stop, or even better-reverse time to live those forgotten, unappreciated moments that escaped me? I think that's where the tears come from. They are happy tears. Happy for her. Happy for her happiness. Happy for her determination to make the right choices. But there is a twinge of sadness, of wishing I could go back, stop time, make everything slow down. Had I just known. Had I listened to all those old people who told me that very thing. Had I understood how quickly it would all make sense. Well, coulda, shoulda, woulda's always leave you hanging with that not-quite-finished feeling, but that's life.Anyhow since the announcement of said engagement I have succeeded in bringing her to tears only once (that I know of and accept responsibility for). We all knew it was coming. We all knew "mom would eventually screw up this happy time" and far be it from me to let everyone down. I did have to have the "are-you-sure-you-MUST-have-this-wedding-only-a-mere-three-weeks-or-so-after-not-one-but-TWO-graduations-and-during-the-most-expensive-oops-i-mean-popular-time-of-year?" talk with both her and her fiance. I gotta say, this guy she's picked is good...he is very, very good! Upon the onset of tears I, of course, felt very guilty (yes, really I did). He sat very composed, listened carefully to my reasoning, nodded his head all the while patting my lovely daughter's leg. When I realized I had nearly reached full "lose 'em" potential, I quickly suggested that the subject be changed, they think about what I had said and we go inside and talk about fun wedding stuff.
Within 48 hours she called and they had thought about it and no, did not want to change their date. OK...alrighty...mom is going to have a little breakdown during her eldest daughters most precious moment in life to date...great...this is great. Quickly, I pulled myself together and thought NO--YOU ARE NOT! You are MOM, you CAN and, more importantly, you WILL do this! You will overcome for the greater good! You will formulate a plan, move into action, you will CONQUER! And with the confidence of a great leader, KAMINSKI-BIDDICK WEDDING TWO THOUSAND AND TEN, kicked into high gear!
To date we have: Secured ceremony venue (our church of course); Met with ceremony planner; Secured reception venue; Met with and secured caterer, baker, photographer, music & chair-bow vendor (a seemingly meaningless, but ever so important detail); Had first round of engagement pictures taken; Composed guest list; Chosen Save-a-Date announcements (ready to be rolled off the press); Decided upon invitations (ready to be rolled off the press); Designed and posted wedding website; Submitted engagement announcement for local newspaper; Purchased miscellaneous favors and bridesmaids gifts; Chosen bridesmaids dresses; hosted a small engagement party; and said YES TO THE DRESS, measured, ordered and paid for!
I can go into immense detail on these fun activities (and I won't unless begged to do so), but suffice it to say the wedding industry is NOT caught up in the economic downturn folks...not! Regardless, the process has been relatively pain-free--no, that is not true, it has been TOTALLY pain-free. I think to both of our surprise and amazement, Sam and I have had the best time doing this together. I cannot really think of anything much more "bonding" than participating in and preparing with your daughter for her most important journey...away from her parents. As mentioned earlier, a very bittersweet and sometimes surreal experience for me, "the mom", but one I wouldn't trade for anything. I am lucky to have an extremely level-headed daughter who has chosen the most magnificent guy on planet earth. Truly, all you girls out there, take lessons from this girl--she calculated cleverly and waited patiently and hit the husband-to-be jackpot! (I have that little fluttery happy feeling just typing that!)
Now having said all that "he's a great guy" stuff. We are embarking on a journey here very soon that will be the most telling of all....Biddick Family Vacation (think Griswolds), complete with all family members packed into the burb for a 14 hour road trip to the beach. THIS will be a true test of said "great guy's" stamina, patience, sense of humor and bladder control. More to come later.
Thursday, July 02, 2009
I Like to Be Grumpy When I Work
Well, my new blinds for the living room came today. There's nothing all that special about my new blinds other than they are replacing the 17 year old shutters and (probably) the 10 year old "bra" fabric topper that has adorned out living room window for as many years. I was excited not only because they are here, but because they came super fast. I ordered them just four or five nights ago.
My husband is a lovely man. He really is. But while in the process of, or while trying to complete household "to-do's" that loveliness sometimes escapes him. Apparently tonight he had that very same revelation about himself.
I had made no bones that I would "love" to have the blinds hung tonight. Being the lovely husband he is, he agreed to do that. Our neighbor had requested we run by to see some things and I asked Steve to go. "No, I'm going to stay here and get the blinds hung". "Are you sure?" Yes. So an hour later I return and he is hanging bracket #2 of blind #1. Anne went in to talk with him and quickly learned he was also not nearly as lovely a dad during blind hanging time. Nothing terrible, but I think his comment was, "no, I really don't like doing this at all".
So being the supportive wife I am, I thought, ohhhh he just wants someone around while he's working. You know people like that? I'm sort of like that. You don't really need help, but it's nice to have a person who can fetch things close by preventing you from making sixteen trips up and down the stepstool. Someone to make conversation so to take your mind off the tedious nature of the job. Someone to give you a quick opinion (higher or lower? to the left or right?) when you need it. So I decided I would go sit in the rocker by the windows and be that supportive person. I sat and asked if he'd read the instructions (knowing full well he hadn't, but didn't need to either), I read the tools needed list to prove that there was no need for a great husband like mine to read the directions, we chatted briefly about the extra sliver of sample wood that was in the packaging, I then shared my observations at the neighbors house, shared the fact that the wife is quite the artist, shared that I wanted her to paint the kids pictures, shared...well, I shared for a bit...apparently too long...
Bracket #2 was completed and it was time to move the stepstool and reconfigure his tool placement:
Him: You're kind of in my workspace.
Me: Well, I thought I would just sit here and talk to you and keep you company. You don't want me to do that?
Him: No. I like to be grumpy when I work and with you here, you are just going to get the brunt of it.
Me: (Huge belly laugh) Are you serious?
Him: Well at least I can be honest. Here, can you go throw this away?
And there, my friends is the sort of revelation one must wait for nearly twenty five years to finally hear.
My husband is a lovely man. He really is. But while in the process of, or while trying to complete household "to-do's" that loveliness sometimes escapes him. Apparently tonight he had that very same revelation about himself.
I had made no bones that I would "love" to have the blinds hung tonight. Being the lovely husband he is, he agreed to do that. Our neighbor had requested we run by to see some things and I asked Steve to go. "No, I'm going to stay here and get the blinds hung". "Are you sure?" Yes. So an hour later I return and he is hanging bracket #2 of blind #1. Anne went in to talk with him and quickly learned he was also not nearly as lovely a dad during blind hanging time. Nothing terrible, but I think his comment was, "no, I really don't like doing this at all".
So being the supportive wife I am, I thought, ohhhh he just wants someone around while he's working. You know people like that? I'm sort of like that. You don't really need help, but it's nice to have a person who can fetch things close by preventing you from making sixteen trips up and down the stepstool. Someone to make conversation so to take your mind off the tedious nature of the job. Someone to give you a quick opinion (higher or lower? to the left or right?) when you need it. So I decided I would go sit in the rocker by the windows and be that supportive person. I sat and asked if he'd read the instructions (knowing full well he hadn't, but didn't need to either), I read the tools needed list to prove that there was no need for a great husband like mine to read the directions, we chatted briefly about the extra sliver of sample wood that was in the packaging, I then shared my observations at the neighbors house, shared the fact that the wife is quite the artist, shared that I wanted her to paint the kids pictures, shared...well, I shared for a bit...apparently too long...
Bracket #2 was completed and it was time to move the stepstool and reconfigure his tool placement:
Him: You're kind of in my workspace.
Me: Well, I thought I would just sit here and talk to you and keep you company. You don't want me to do that?
Him: No. I like to be grumpy when I work and with you here, you are just going to get the brunt of it.
Me: (Huge belly laugh) Are you serious?
Him: Well at least I can be honest. Here, can you go throw this away?
And there, my friends is the sort of revelation one must wait for nearly twenty five years to finally hear.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
EXCITEMENT LIKE NO OTHER
Yep, that's what I've got right now at 12:30 pm--no, I guess it's am really. I can't even talk about it till later, but suffice it to say that this is big...really, really big.
A quick follow up from my last post. When Anne came home from school on Thursday, just three days after my "Mr. Crabs isn't doing so hot" post, I wasn't home yet. I called her to tell her I would not be long and to go ahead and do her normal after school routine...check on pet(s), check backpack, wash hands, get snack, start on homework, etc. No problem. So when I arrive I have her take a quick break to "visit with mom" a bit. She comes up to me and ..., well it went something like this:
Me: Hey you! Give me a hug! How was your day?
AMB: Good.
Me: Much homework?
AMB: Just math and I've already done it.
Me: Good for you! Have you had a snack?
AMB: Yes.
Me: Did you let Opal out?
AMB: Yes.
Me: Check her water?
AMB: Yes.
Me: Mr. Crabs?
AMB: (without a hint of hesitation) Dead.
Me: Excuse me?
AMB: Dead.
Yes, that's all she said, and emphatically so. About the time I replied with the "excuse me?", I could tell it was going to be impossible to refrain from the hysterical laugh that was building up within me. By her second reply of simply and matter-of-factly, "dead", my premonition came true and I burst out with the most insane laughter all the while thinking, "this could be a real life altering blow to everything she believes about her mother, but I CANNOT HELP IT"!! Thank God, she immediately began laughing right along with me too. I felt a little guilty for not exhibiting a better example of bereavement, but was glad that she had enough sense to not be terribly torn up about our now deceased crustacean friend, Mr. Crabs, may he rest in peace.
Oh, by the way, apparently it really doesn't bother her at all since he is in fact, still dead as a doornail in the borrowed box in her room. Just haven't quite had time to get around to that, but please note that, unlike other creatures, fiddler crabs lose their earthy smell once they die. So a positive was realized regarding the crustacean world after all--yay!
Had my first dog training session with AMB and Opal today. Steve had taken her last week because I wasn't feeling great, and far less great enough to deal with dog(s). The Dog Whisperer (Steve) returned last week with glowing reports of Opal's high intellect and obedient and eager-to-please nature, so my expectations were high today. Today was the "real dog" class though. Steve had gone to a make-up class with only 3 or 4 other dogs in it, half of which were young puppies. Today was our regular class with dogs 10 months and older.
Dogs and People are a funny mix.
Suffice it to say that I've never thought of myself much as a dog person, people person yes, dog person so-so, and cats are out of the question. But over the years and the dogs who have tried desperately to make their way in our family, I think I have come to appreciate a good dog. Hence my irritation today.
Today's lesson was "off" and "down". Didn't spend much time on "off", because basically you whack them on the nose with a soft rolled up towel when they jump up on you and who wants a room full of people trying to instigate their dog to jump on them only to have all those people whacking their dogs. So most of the lesson was spent with "down". First thing is you don't get to say the word "down", which even after asking why not and getting a perfectly sensible answer, I still thought it odd. Nevertheless watching the teacher of the class work with the dogs, she clearly knew something about all this and she's funny. So, although I was still a bit perplexed I did as told...or so I thought.
After being taught the lesson and what to do and having her use a couple of the dogs in class ("teacher's pet" Opal as reported last week, being one of them) as examples, it was then our turn to practice the commands with our dogs ourselves. There are all kinds of dogs in this class, big dogs, little dogs, black and white dogs, blue dogs, green dogs...I digress. Like the dogs, there are also all kinds of people there, old people, young people, smart people, dumb people. When one signs up for "training" for one's dog, doesn't one expect to actually do that "training"? Well, we had the pleasure of sitting next to Mr. & Mrs. We Love Our Little Worthless Furball who, because they couldn't get Little Worthless Furball to mind them decided it would be more fun to see if they could walk him (or her, who knows) back and forth trying to "socialize" Little Worthless Furball and maybe, just maybe Little Worthless Furball would quit snarling at every dog that came up to it.
So here you are with your dog and it's like having a child who hasn't had their Ritalin meds for days--the dog is flipping all around, looking around, up, down, left, right at every unfamiliar noise it hears and up comes Little Worthless Furball with his/her "daddy". So what does your normal I'm-trying-to-be-attentive-and-learn-what-you-want-me-to-for-this-teeny-tiny-treat-you-are-taunting-me-with dog do but get distracted by LWF, begins sniffing LWF only to be snarled and snapped at by LWF.
Well, you'd better not do that a. to Opal, and b. to any dog that has been around the Biddick house for long. We may let you snarl or snap once, but that's it. Do it the second time and our tail stops wagging, we get in "pounce and kill" position, and you will likely pay for your error if you don't back away pretty darned quick. So, when Opal began the "I don't THINK so Little Worthless Furball" stance, I calmly said to "daddy" in front of "mommy", "I don't think she's liking your dog too much right now".
OH MY GAWD! At that moment, I realized I had become one of "them"! One of those people who are as protective and bleeding hearted about their dogs as they are their kids. Although it WAS the truth, and "mommy" told "daddy" that maybe he ought to back LWF out of our training space, I still, at that moment, had gone to the dark side.
Worse part was, about that time the training teacher came by, "let's see what you can do with her"! Oh yay. Minutes earlier I felt like Opal had lost about as much interest in the stupid treats as I had in working this hard to get her to lay on the ground. I think that was fairly evident when the teacher said to me at one point, "don't KICK her to get her to move". Had I kicked her? I hadn't even realized I KICKED her! Did anyone actually hear the teacher say that to me? Did Anne think I'd kicked Opal? Nope, Anne was sitting slunked in the chair asking if she could go look out in the store (knowing full well it was a ploy to go look at Webkinz merchandise). Ok, I'll TRY not to kick the dog. This was after the trainer told me I was doing everything wrong--too much name calling (not what you are thinking, just me saying "Opal" too much), not holding the stupid treat right, not moving with the dog. I was a failure--a dog training failure. But we were still better than Little Worthless Hairball and his/her people. Training lady took over again with Opal, realized our distraction and cut me some slack. I was then instructed to try the manuever again and did so under the ever-critiquing eyes of Ms. Training Teacher, finding her less humorous than I had earlier. Opal cooperated helping to keep me from looking like a total moron. I quickly told Anne she had better practice with Opal too and was glad to see she was even worse than me.
While sitting down waiting to be dismissed, I begin to watch "Dixie", the other "teacher's pet" smart dog in the class. Dixie was two dogs to our left and is a Golden Poodle that looks like a giant sandy brown curly haired stuffed teddy bear you'd win on tv. Dixie and Opal had met out in the hallway before class. Dixie is perfect, nice, well-behaved, good-mannered, polite, friendly and cute. Opal ended up snapping at Dixie for those traits I am sure. Jealously runs rampant in the Biddick house. Dixie's parents are perfect too and they smile a lot at Dixie's quick mastering of the hand signal signifying Dixie to her perfect "down" position. I could not believe it. Dixie was already just laying "down" without even nashing her parent's nails trying to get the treat, without her parents breaking their backs bending ever-so-slowly over to the floor to get her to lay down...Dixie already knew when her parents moved their arm from up to down by their leg, Dixie knew to lay down.
Opal and I will be spending a lot of time together this week. Dixie will NOT have one up on Opal. Opal has come from nothing. Dixie has come from a long line of fine pedigree. Opal came begging to us. Dixie was "chosen". But Opal's got stamina, she's hearty, she's seen bad stuff and lived to tell about it. So we're gonna show up NEXT week with something to show Miss Dixie...and we're not sitting by that Little Worthless Hairball distraction either.
A quick follow up from my last post. When Anne came home from school on Thursday, just three days after my "Mr. Crabs isn't doing so hot" post, I wasn't home yet. I called her to tell her I would not be long and to go ahead and do her normal after school routine...check on pet(s), check backpack, wash hands, get snack, start on homework, etc. No problem. So when I arrive I have her take a quick break to "visit with mom" a bit. She comes up to me and ..., well it went something like this:
Me: Hey you! Give me a hug! How was your day?
AMB: Good.
Me: Much homework?
AMB: Just math and I've already done it.
Me: Good for you! Have you had a snack?
AMB: Yes.
Me: Did you let Opal out?
AMB: Yes.
Me: Check her water?
AMB: Yes.
Me: Mr. Crabs?
AMB: (without a hint of hesitation) Dead.
Me: Excuse me?
AMB: Dead.
Yes, that's all she said, and emphatically so. About the time I replied with the "excuse me?", I could tell it was going to be impossible to refrain from the hysterical laugh that was building up within me. By her second reply of simply and matter-of-factly, "dead", my premonition came true and I burst out with the most insane laughter all the while thinking, "this could be a real life altering blow to everything she believes about her mother, but I CANNOT HELP IT"!! Thank God, she immediately began laughing right along with me too. I felt a little guilty for not exhibiting a better example of bereavement, but was glad that she had enough sense to not be terribly torn up about our now deceased crustacean friend, Mr. Crabs, may he rest in peace.
Oh, by the way, apparently it really doesn't bother her at all since he is in fact, still dead as a doornail in the borrowed box in her room. Just haven't quite had time to get around to that, but please note that, unlike other creatures, fiddler crabs lose their earthy smell once they die. So a positive was realized regarding the crustacean world after all--yay!
Had my first dog training session with AMB and Opal today. Steve had taken her last week because I wasn't feeling great, and far less great enough to deal with dog(s). The Dog Whisperer (Steve) returned last week with glowing reports of Opal's high intellect and obedient and eager-to-please nature, so my expectations were high today. Today was the "real dog" class though. Steve had gone to a make-up class with only 3 or 4 other dogs in it, half of which were young puppies. Today was our regular class with dogs 10 months and older.
Dogs and People are a funny mix.
Suffice it to say that I've never thought of myself much as a dog person, people person yes, dog person so-so, and cats are out of the question. But over the years and the dogs who have tried desperately to make their way in our family, I think I have come to appreciate a good dog. Hence my irritation today.
Today's lesson was "off" and "down". Didn't spend much time on "off", because basically you whack them on the nose with a soft rolled up towel when they jump up on you and who wants a room full of people trying to instigate their dog to jump on them only to have all those people whacking their dogs. So most of the lesson was spent with "down". First thing is you don't get to say the word "down", which even after asking why not and getting a perfectly sensible answer, I still thought it odd. Nevertheless watching the teacher of the class work with the dogs, she clearly knew something about all this and she's funny. So, although I was still a bit perplexed I did as told...or so I thought.
After being taught the lesson and what to do and having her use a couple of the dogs in class ("teacher's pet" Opal as reported last week, being one of them) as examples, it was then our turn to practice the commands with our dogs ourselves. There are all kinds of dogs in this class, big dogs, little dogs, black and white dogs, blue dogs, green dogs...I digress. Like the dogs, there are also all kinds of people there, old people, young people, smart people, dumb people. When one signs up for "training" for one's dog, doesn't one expect to actually do that "training"? Well, we had the pleasure of sitting next to Mr. & Mrs. We Love Our Little Worthless Furball who, because they couldn't get Little Worthless Furball to mind them decided it would be more fun to see if they could walk him (or her, who knows) back and forth trying to "socialize" Little Worthless Furball and maybe, just maybe Little Worthless Furball would quit snarling at every dog that came up to it.
So here you are with your dog and it's like having a child who hasn't had their Ritalin meds for days--the dog is flipping all around, looking around, up, down, left, right at every unfamiliar noise it hears and up comes Little Worthless Furball with his/her "daddy". So what does your normal I'm-trying-to-be-attentive-and-learn-what-you-want-me-to-for-this-teeny-tiny-treat-you-are-taunting-me-with dog do but get distracted by LWF, begins sniffing LWF only to be snarled and snapped at by LWF.
Well, you'd better not do that a. to Opal, and b. to any dog that has been around the Biddick house for long. We may let you snarl or snap once, but that's it. Do it the second time and our tail stops wagging, we get in "pounce and kill" position, and you will likely pay for your error if you don't back away pretty darned quick. So, when Opal began the "I don't THINK so Little Worthless Furball" stance, I calmly said to "daddy" in front of "mommy", "I don't think she's liking your dog too much right now".
OH MY GAWD! At that moment, I realized I had become one of "them"! One of those people who are as protective and bleeding hearted about their dogs as they are their kids. Although it WAS the truth, and "mommy" told "daddy" that maybe he ought to back LWF out of our training space, I still, at that moment, had gone to the dark side.
Worse part was, about that time the training teacher came by, "let's see what you can do with her"! Oh yay. Minutes earlier I felt like Opal had lost about as much interest in the stupid treats as I had in working this hard to get her to lay on the ground. I think that was fairly evident when the teacher said to me at one point, "don't KICK her to get her to move". Had I kicked her? I hadn't even realized I KICKED her! Did anyone actually hear the teacher say that to me? Did Anne think I'd kicked Opal? Nope, Anne was sitting slunked in the chair asking if she could go look out in the store (knowing full well it was a ploy to go look at Webkinz merchandise). Ok, I'll TRY not to kick the dog. This was after the trainer told me I was doing everything wrong--too much name calling (not what you are thinking, just me saying "Opal" too much), not holding the stupid treat right, not moving with the dog. I was a failure--a dog training failure. But we were still better than Little Worthless Hairball and his/her people. Training lady took over again with Opal, realized our distraction and cut me some slack. I was then instructed to try the manuever again and did so under the ever-critiquing eyes of Ms. Training Teacher, finding her less humorous than I had earlier. Opal cooperated helping to keep me from looking like a total moron. I quickly told Anne she had better practice with Opal too and was glad to see she was even worse than me.
While sitting down waiting to be dismissed, I begin to watch "Dixie", the other "teacher's pet" smart dog in the class. Dixie was two dogs to our left and is a Golden Poodle that looks like a giant sandy brown curly haired stuffed teddy bear you'd win on tv. Dixie and Opal had met out in the hallway before class. Dixie is perfect, nice, well-behaved, good-mannered, polite, friendly and cute. Opal ended up snapping at Dixie for those traits I am sure. Jealously runs rampant in the Biddick house. Dixie's parents are perfect too and they smile a lot at Dixie's quick mastering of the hand signal signifying Dixie to her perfect "down" position. I could not believe it. Dixie was already just laying "down" without even nashing her parent's nails trying to get the treat, without her parents breaking their backs bending ever-so-slowly over to the floor to get her to lay down...Dixie already knew when her parents moved their arm from up to down by their leg, Dixie knew to lay down.
Opal and I will be spending a lot of time together this week. Dixie will NOT have one up on Opal. Opal has come from nothing. Dixie has come from a long line of fine pedigree. Opal came begging to us. Dixie was "chosen". But Opal's got stamina, she's hearty, she's seen bad stuff and lived to tell about it. So we're gonna show up NEXT week with something to show Miss Dixie...and we're not sitting by that Little Worthless Hairball distraction either.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Mr. Crabs Isn't Going to Make It Much Longer
This is what I have to tell my 10-yr old today. I was commissioned this morning to change Mr. Crabs water (which I did, nearly forgetting Mr. Crabs is a salt-water lover which entails adding a dechlorination solution and salt crystals) and "maybe try and clean out his sand". Well the latter was much more difficult than anticipated and after observing Mr. Crabs behavior, I came to the "mom conclusion" that mixing the sand up thereby burying the icky stuff to the bottom, would be sufficient for what I think will be Mr. Crabs last few days of living on this earth.
Now, I know that many a parent has performed these same duties for their young sons and daughters. And I know that many a child has beemed with joy as mine did lugging their crab, their frog, their tadpole home from their loving teacher's left-over science project. Here's what I don't know...is this some kind of conspiracy? Is it a conspiracy to keep the crustacean accessories industry afloat? I think so!
As I understand it, the teacher orders these short-lived creatures for her classroom to observe in as close to a "natural habitat" as can be created in a flourescent lit, formica cladden science lab full of 9 and 10 year olds. Then those creatures arrive, most are alive, however some have not traveled as well and are "discarded". Of course the kids know the exact count of DOA's and have also attentively observed the "poor little frog" or "poor little crabs" peril upon arrival.
Now, here's the problem. We all know that these creatures do not live long under any circumstance, far less under the care of a 4th grader...or her busy mother...or brother...or pet dog. I mean, would someone please stand up and tell me, give me the evidence that they have, know of or can prove a crab or frog or tadpole that has lived post-elementary science lab past the age of 26 days or so? There is a prize for any one who can prove that to me.
So, here's where the conspiracy comes in. There must be some agreement that the teacher must make with the company providing these creatures that says all remaining living creatures must be lugged home in a stinky, sticky, noise filled busload of children, then dragged down a few blocks to a home of a caring child who foresees her crab living beyond the day she will leave for college. When the teacher accepts this aggreement, the company then mails said science experiments to teacher. At some point the pet stores and crustacean lobbyists across the country come in to play. They must pay the companies that supply these creatures to the teachers. They must pay them a percentage for every agreement these companies can get the teacher to make. Because before your caring, creature-loving child is allowed to bring this still-living (lucky) creature home, you TOO have to sign saying that it is ok and that you will provide the very lucky creature with the proper environment...herein lies the conspiracy.
So, you get the child running in the door with a clear plastic cup commonly used for rainbow sherbet punch at a wedding reception. Instead the cup contains a little sand and, in our case, two crabs...fiddler crabs so they say. My daughter is immediately needing an aquarium, salt water, dechlorination drops, fish food, or even better crustacean food and washed grass from outside (I immediately draw the line at washing grass from outside seeing as our own clothing is still piled up in various stages of dirty, washed not dried, dried not folded and buried throughout the house). Did that form I signed yesterday mention all this? Surely they can make it one day without their special needs...we'll go tomorrow.
Tomorrow comes and little fiddler crab has already perished. Time is running out. The 10 year old suggest an early morning run to the local pet store BEFORE school to assure remaining crabs life. Fortunately I can vouch that said pet store is not even open then and we will just have to wait till she returns from school. When she gets home, she hits the door yelling out if "Mr. Crabs" is still alive, I reply in the affirmative. She then begins a multi-tasking venture the likes of which I have never seen her do before. She leaps upstairs runs into the shower and does all after-school chores faster than she's ever done all year. This is big---really big.
We are off to the pet store. Yes, this IS a conspiracy. One teeny tiny fiddler crab. About the size of the tip of my thumb. Does this creature need a $24.99 tank to "have room to run around in"? I think not. We finally find something around the $15 mark. But then there's food, and salt and sand. Can't we just use dirt from outside? What about table salt, I'm sure that's ok. Must Mr. Crab dine on dried miniature shrimp? I would like shrimp tonight too. Ok, we're in negotiating phase now. I'll buy these "necessities" (who came up with glow-in-the-dark sand? Secretly, I find it a pretty cool idea!), but Mr. Crabs is residing in a tupperware dish until we see if he will acclamate to our efforts in making him part of the family.
That evening after purchasing the "necessities" for Mr. Crabs, I find out from another mom that just last year, she too purchased same "necessities" and was able to get all of 12 days use out of them. She still had all the supplies complete with the air vented, color topped plastic aquarium giving your special fiddler crab that extra running room they yearn for...sucker! She tells me to return everything we've bought (fortunately we'd yet to make it home with the supplies at that point) and she would let us borrow everything she had--yay!! Bet the aquarium, fish food, special salt companies didn't plan on THAT now did they!
Well, Mr. Crabs has been set up now for 5 or 6 days. My daughters room smells like the building at the zoo where they keep the alligators...all from this one little crustacean and his (?) dried mini-shrimp food, I'm sure. But after completely my requested tasks today, I noticed Mr. Crabs isn't quite as lively as in days past. The big pincher isn't flailing about, he's not crabbing around with quite the same pep in his step and I really think he's starting to change color a little. So this is the part where we learn (and have the privilege of teaching) all about the circle of life, God's plan and conspiratorial agreements made between public education, science experiment providers and crab food companies...wonder how THAT conversation is going to go?!
Now, I know that many a parent has performed these same duties for their young sons and daughters. And I know that many a child has beemed with joy as mine did lugging their crab, their frog, their tadpole home from their loving teacher's left-over science project. Here's what I don't know...is this some kind of conspiracy? Is it a conspiracy to keep the crustacean accessories industry afloat? I think so!
As I understand it, the teacher orders these short-lived creatures for her classroom to observe in as close to a "natural habitat" as can be created in a flourescent lit, formica cladden science lab full of 9 and 10 year olds. Then those creatures arrive, most are alive, however some have not traveled as well and are "discarded". Of course the kids know the exact count of DOA's and have also attentively observed the "poor little frog" or "poor little crabs" peril upon arrival.
Now, here's the problem. We all know that these creatures do not live long under any circumstance, far less under the care of a 4th grader...or her busy mother...or brother...or pet dog. I mean, would someone please stand up and tell me, give me the evidence that they have, know of or can prove a crab or frog or tadpole that has lived post-elementary science lab past the age of 26 days or so? There is a prize for any one who can prove that to me.
So, here's where the conspiracy comes in. There must be some agreement that the teacher must make with the company providing these creatures that says all remaining living creatures must be lugged home in a stinky, sticky, noise filled busload of children, then dragged down a few blocks to a home of a caring child who foresees her crab living beyond the day she will leave for college. When the teacher accepts this aggreement, the company then mails said science experiments to teacher. At some point the pet stores and crustacean lobbyists across the country come in to play. They must pay the companies that supply these creatures to the teachers. They must pay them a percentage for every agreement these companies can get the teacher to make. Because before your caring, creature-loving child is allowed to bring this still-living (lucky) creature home, you TOO have to sign saying that it is ok and that you will provide the very lucky creature with the proper environment...herein lies the conspiracy.
So, you get the child running in the door with a clear plastic cup commonly used for rainbow sherbet punch at a wedding reception. Instead the cup contains a little sand and, in our case, two crabs...fiddler crabs so they say. My daughter is immediately needing an aquarium, salt water, dechlorination drops, fish food, or even better crustacean food and washed grass from outside (I immediately draw the line at washing grass from outside seeing as our own clothing is still piled up in various stages of dirty, washed not dried, dried not folded and buried throughout the house). Did that form I signed yesterday mention all this? Surely they can make it one day without their special needs...we'll go tomorrow.
Tomorrow comes and little fiddler crab has already perished. Time is running out. The 10 year old suggest an early morning run to the local pet store BEFORE school to assure remaining crabs life. Fortunately I can vouch that said pet store is not even open then and we will just have to wait till she returns from school. When she gets home, she hits the door yelling out if "Mr. Crabs" is still alive, I reply in the affirmative. She then begins a multi-tasking venture the likes of which I have never seen her do before. She leaps upstairs runs into the shower and does all after-school chores faster than she's ever done all year. This is big---really big.
We are off to the pet store. Yes, this IS a conspiracy. One teeny tiny fiddler crab. About the size of the tip of my thumb. Does this creature need a $24.99 tank to "have room to run around in"? I think not. We finally find something around the $15 mark. But then there's food, and salt and sand. Can't we just use dirt from outside? What about table salt, I'm sure that's ok. Must Mr. Crab dine on dried miniature shrimp? I would like shrimp tonight too. Ok, we're in negotiating phase now. I'll buy these "necessities" (who came up with glow-in-the-dark sand? Secretly, I find it a pretty cool idea!), but Mr. Crabs is residing in a tupperware dish until we see if he will acclamate to our efforts in making him part of the family.
That evening after purchasing the "necessities" for Mr. Crabs, I find out from another mom that just last year, she too purchased same "necessities" and was able to get all of 12 days use out of them. She still had all the supplies complete with the air vented, color topped plastic aquarium giving your special fiddler crab that extra running room they yearn for...sucker! She tells me to return everything we've bought (fortunately we'd yet to make it home with the supplies at that point) and she would let us borrow everything she had--yay!! Bet the aquarium, fish food, special salt companies didn't plan on THAT now did they!
Well, Mr. Crabs has been set up now for 5 or 6 days. My daughters room smells like the building at the zoo where they keep the alligators...all from this one little crustacean and his (?) dried mini-shrimp food, I'm sure. But after completely my requested tasks today, I noticed Mr. Crabs isn't quite as lively as in days past. The big pincher isn't flailing about, he's not crabbing around with quite the same pep in his step and I really think he's starting to change color a little. So this is the part where we learn (and have the privilege of teaching) all about the circle of life, God's plan and conspiratorial agreements made between public education, science experiment providers and crab food companies...wonder how THAT conversation is going to go?!
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