Dachshund, huh?

Today Dustin and I were running errands.  We were driving out of the parking lot of a big box store on the busiest street in our town.  The parking lot funnels out onto this busy street via a stoplight and it was red as we approached it.  Running off of said street and into the parking lot of said store was a little, red haired dachshund. 

I saw the dog.  I noted in my mind how funny dachshunds look when they’re running. 

I said, “Look at that little wiener dog, Dust.” 

I may or may not have said something about the high chances of it getting hit by a car.  If I didn’t say it aloud, I thought it. 

Dustin, approaching the red light, stopped far behind the other cars and opened his door. 

He made a little kissy-squeaky noise with his lips and the dog stopped.  He called to it.  It looked at us for all of two seconds and then came trotting over to us.  The light turned green.  Dustin scooped up the dog, set it’s muddy feet on his lap, shut the door and drove away. 

I looked around as all this was happening to see if we could identify some sort of owner.  Maybe we should’ve waited longer or looked more, but there are no houses close by and there were no visible people.  And, the light was green. 

I was shocked.  Who was the man sitting next to me?  I was fairly certain it was my husband, but this was not typical Dustin behavior.   As I thought all this, I stared at the dog.  Me, who hasn’t wanted a dog, even a little bit. 

“It’s a girl.” I observed.

“Yeah, it is.” Dustin replied.

This dog communicated with me during that minute I spent looking her over.

“She’s cute.” I commented. “And she seems really mellow.”

“Yeah, she is.  And yes, she does.” Dustin replied.

We drove a block or so down the road and stopped where we were going to eat lunch at a little Thai restaurant.  We sat in the parking lot, the little dog quietly sitting on Dustin’s lap, and stared at each other. 

“Go in and get some food.” Dustin said.

“Are we getting take out? “ I replied.  “I thought we were going in.”

We stared at each other more.  We looked down at the dog.  She licked my hand.  She spoke to me in her doggie language.

“She’s cute.” I repeated.

“She is.” Dustin replied.

We sat there silently.  We stared at each other again. 

“How about we make something at home and come back here for dinner,” I said.

“Good idea,” Dustin confirmed.

We left.

We went home. 

With a dachshund.

*I called the Humane Society and let them know that we found this dog.  I described her and left my phone number and told where she was found.  I also took her into the Animal Shelter and had her scanned for a microchip.  They didn’t find one.  I filled out a “Found” form and told them we’d like to care for her until someone calls to claim her.  If someone calls to claim her.  In their prayers tonight, my kids all prayed that no one would call.   I kinda feel the same way. 

Just Say No

Sometimes, in my moments of mothering, I wish I could forge a campaign against an issue that would be completely moot.  Really there’s nothing to be done but deal with them, but those little things like bedwetting and nighttime vomit cleanup details... can we put a stop to that? 

Or could we, perhaps, create a committee that would rally for the cause of ending sibling bickering?  Who wants to be the committee chairperson? 

Today, I’d like to wage a useless war on Stealth Pooping.  You know the kind…

You’ve been mildly puttering around doing all the house things that need doing (laundry, dishes, reading, blogging), and your cute little 10 month old baby is puttering around doing all the little baby things that need doing (carrying her baby doll by the arm, digging in the dirt of Daddy’s bonsai plant [AGAIN!], making the cutest jabber-sounds known to mankind… you know, all those important baby things).  Your baby starts to get fussy.  You pick her up.  You feed her a little food.  You give her a little toy.  You just changed her diaper 15 minutes ago, so you don’t even think of checking that out. 

Time goes by.

Baby is ok, but not content.  She wants you to hold her a LOT.  You are a loving mother, so you comply.  You rock her and sing her a song.  You might even get her to go to sleep. 

More time goes by. 

Baby is acting fairly normal, but suddenly breaks down.  She fusses and acts uncomfortable.  It’s been a while since you changed her little diaper, so you do the diaper yank.  (you know that one too, I am sure.)  Then you see it.

THE STEALTH POOP. 

You have no idea when it happened.  No olfactory indicator was given.  You go to change the diaper and realize that this mess has been here a while.  Suddenly, all those sounds of discontent from your little darling take on a different meaning.

You croon, “Oh, baby-girl!  I’m so sorry!  How long has this been here?”  You ask the question knowing you’ll get no answer from your yet-wordless little one.

Baby starts howling and screaming as you try to clean up the mess that is, clearly, not fresh and thus not easily removed with your trusty box of wipes.  A battle ensues involving short, kicking legs, wet-wipes, soothing words (soothing the mommy much more than the baby), and vain attempts to keep the baby’s shoulders both on the ground at the same time.  

Somehow, a champion emerges.  You, the mother, are the victor, successfully slathering a little raw bum with ointments, creams or powders.

Everyone is relieved and baby toddles off, continuing her bold quest of melting hearts by shooting rays of delightfulness and adorability from her toes, eyeballs, mouth, ears, knees, nose, fingers and heart.

The end. 

Right?

Wrong.  What you are forgetting is just how stealthy Stealth Poop can be.  It’s a sly one.  It could be ten minutes, or it could be an hour. If you’re not careful, Stealth Poop will hold you in a vicious cycle of sneaky messes, wrestling matches and raw bums that could last for days or weeks.  And that’s where my campaign comes in. 

M.A.S.P.

Mothers Against Stealth Pooping. 

The design is rudimentary, but I’m thinking it’s going to make some powerfully impactful bumper stickers:

I’ll be passing out flyers on diaper isles in a grocery store near you.

Reader Tribulation

So, there's some blogs I read.   I used to think they were awesome.  Or something.   For whatever reason, awesome or not, I subscribed to them in Google Reader.  I've since decided they are un-awesome.  Or, at the very least, irrelevant and gumming up the grease in the quest for simplifying my life.  (QUEST, I tell you!)  So, like a good Simplification-Questerian, I went to my little "manage subscriptions" button in Reader and I unsubscribed to several previously-important blogs. 

I'll have you know, taking that step relaxed my mentally faculties. I refreshed my little Reader page and discovered less to read.  Less is more, don't you know?

A week or so went by and I experienced blissful simplicity via Google Reader. 

Until.

Google Reader began thinking for itself.  We might be dealing with some sort of A.I. here, folks. 

Right there, in my Reader feed, were those blogs that had fallen through the cracks of pertinence.  Those blogs I had eliminated from my brain-clutter had returned.  Why?  I don't know. 

So, I repeated the process.  Unsubscribe.  No thanks, lovely blogs. 

Again, I went on my merry, on-the-path-to-the-simple-life way. 

A week-ish passed again... log in to Reader...

THEY'RE BA-A-A-A-A-CK!!!! 

Seriously? 

Seriously.

I have now gone through this process three times.  And tonight, once again, the blogs are back. 

DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND, READER!!!?????  

Just let me be, blogs.  Get thee hence.   Please!? 

I am mystified.

Three Cheers for Randomness and Rambling

Hurrah.


So, January, huh?  That's just weird.

December held me captive via chocolate, caramel and Santa Clause.  It was an exhausting month.  Not to mention Baby B.  I don't recall my other babies being this much work.  But neither to I recall being 31 when I had my other babies.  Right.  I was in my twenties.  I remember now.  I am now convinced that factor makes an impactful difference.

The return to school, post Christmas break, is a brutal thing.  I'll be honest... I'm  not a fan.  But after a few days, I think we're back in the swing of things.

Did you ever think about that term, "back in the swing of things"?  When I think of that term, it brings to mind some feeling of routine and easiness or something.  But when I think about it a little more literally, I think of a swing at a park that goes up and down, fast and slow.  You have to pump to get going high and fast, and you can cruise a little bit and enjoy the ride, but you slow down and eventually stop.  It's fun.  Or it was when I was young.  Now that I'm 32, I get that barfy feeling, which obliterates some of that fun feeling.  I'm not sure what that means, but it's got to be significant somehow...

It's really too bad how YouTube has started showing advertisements.  Remember the good ole days when it was just weird videos? 

Micheal Buble's mouth moves weird to me.  I think I should just listen to his music and not watch him sing on YouTube where I can't help but wonder if he genetically can't relax his upper lip or if he just does that when he sings. 

Hurrah.

Speaking of YouTube, I just watched this video of my little LITTLE Rohan and I may or may not have cried a little bit while I saw that sweet little face and heard that precious little voice.  What happens to these babies?  Where do they go?  Why do they have to get swallowed up by these older, yet no less wonderful, big kids?  How does this happen?  Can't these adorable little tiny faces somehow coexist with the new, more grown-up versions?  Growing up is so tragic and so wonderful.  Such a dichotomy. 




Did you cry?  Probably not, but I bet you smiled.  "This is me.  I am Rohan.  Amen."  Precious.

You know what I miss about blogging?  Expressing myself.  I find myself all comtemplative and introspective lately, with no outlet.  I'm not really talking to anyone in depth, except my husband, but daily life does not always lend itself to deep introspective talks.  I have to make those happen.  And Dustin, being a man, places deep talking and diving into emotional wells down about #100 on his to-do list.  And that's just fine.  He is willing to take a plunge now and then, but he doesn't have a need to do so, like I do, being a woman.  I got to do that as often I wanted to when I was blogging a lot and I miss that.  Miss it, I tell you.
For Christmas, I got a new computer.  And a very expensive piece of software that I can build custom websites with.  I'm doing one right now for my brother-in-law.  Next I will do my own (which was why I actually bought the program) for my pretzels and such.  It's all very exciting. 

Speaking of exciting... our other big Christmas present was a finished basement.  Carpet came on December 27th.  It's been about 4 years in the making, our basement.  But it's really, actually finished now.  I can't tell you the satisfaction this has brought to Dustin and I.  And I can't tell you how grateful I am for my dad and his endless knowledge about all things construction.  He's good, I tell you.  Very good. 

Hurrah!

And, because you have asked (on Facebook) and will ask on here, here are some pictures, before and after.

Just kidding.  I wrote this post on January 6th and it's only just being published because I've been trying to get up the gumption to post those blasted pictures. Why are pics so hard for me? I have no idea.  Maybe some day I'll show before and afters... but not today.

Hurrah?