Tag Archives: pets

Come back, nap.

This is coffee.  Coffee took the place of Nap.  I liked Nap better.

I miss naps.

Like, I really EFFING miss naps.

Naps are just not part of my universe at this point, and honestly?  There is a nap-shaped hole in Keri’s heart.

In my past I was an EPIC napper.  A napper for the ages.  A napper on a competitive scale (but I didn’t go pro, because I didn’t want to risk losing my ability to compete in the nap Olympics, I guess.)

Napping has long been a favorite ritual of mine – waaaaaay back into the days of Keri-yore. (Yep, I just said that – it’s a thing now.)

When I was in middle school, we had the Ahhhh-mazingly ugly Blue Flowered Sofa in our living room.  It was something special, for sure.  The arm rests were large and rolled, and fit perfectly in the crook of your neck when you laid down on it.  So I did. Lay down on it, I mean.  Pretty much every day after school until my mom got home and woke me up, I would nap.  (I freaking miss you, Blue Flowered Sofa.)

In high school and college power naps were a MUST, since I was NOT making responsible choices about bedtimes AT ALL (I still kinda don’t.)

The months leading up to and directly following my Multiple Sclerosis diagnosis were one big blur of nap: sometimes inadvertent (falling asleep on the keyboard at work, a lot, every damn day, not knowing why I was so tired,) and on purpose (leaving my steroid infusion appointments, going directly to my parents’ office and eating a giant bag of fast food before sleeping the whole afternoon on my dad’s office floor.)  MS makes you tired.  Crazy tired.  But napping was also a way to hide, to postpone processing, and to shut down from fear and sadness for a while.

Slowly that fog did lift, and I reclaimed the concept of nap-as-recreation.   My favorite hobby.

As I settled into married life and became a mom to the cutest, fuzziest, bestest napping dog EVER, the Sunday afternoon marathon nap was solidified as a permanently scheduled calendar item for Binky-the-wonder-dog and me.   This was SERIOUS business – in the bedroom, curtains drawn, under the covers, see ya in a few hours for dinner, BIG TIME NAPPING.  When I was pregnant it became pretty much the whole day.

And then along came Jr….

The early days were ok, a bit foggy at first, but then we settled in and I would nap when he napped, at least sometimes.

But then he got older. Naps dropped to one a day, and I found I had to get things done at that time.  Then naps – sweet sweet naps – were gone completely.

Last Sunday I was dozing a bit while he colored on his latest superhero creation and it hit me, a wave of nostalgic, wistful longing.  MY NAPS!! My precious naps….  They have no place now.

And I still stay up way too late – now grabbing a little time for myself or writing or prepping for the next day of life for the family….  And we just go and we go and we go.

I am so freakin’ tired.

Oh naps…. I think I miss you most of all.

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The Secret of The Mother’s Heart

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He made me “mom.” So he can lay on the good pillows.

This little ball of flufftastic perfection is my firstborn baby boy. We had long nights of not much sleep together during those 1st weeks of being a family, and eventually I figured out how to best care for him. Just like any other new baby.
I have beamed with pride at his doggy accomplishments, celebrated big milestones in his life, worried and prayed through some scary sicknesses with him (hello extra gray hairs,) and I knew from the first time I saw him that he had reshaped my heart.

It was more than that. He revealed to me the true Secret of a Mother’s Heart:  it can expand indefinitely. There is always more room, always more love.

I am never afraid to give 100% of my love -to him, to his spunky almost-kindergartener brother (time flies,) to my family and friends, and to those in the world who need to feel love and compassion.

I understand now, how my own mother’s love grew the strongest and shined the brightest on me when I was at my worst. (God bless you, Maude)

Because a Mother’s Heart renews and replenishes and strengthens and gives.

Happy Mothers’ Day to all the mommas out there-  you are all beautiful, amazing, pefectly-imperfect gifts to your families and friends and communities.
I raise my mimosa to each and every one of you!

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One of those nights.

3 years ago this week, in a blaze of solo packing glory, I packed up our condo like a crazy person when it was suddenly, FINALLY confirmed that the sale would actually go through (don’t ask, there are seriously some things that even my blabber-mouth self will never be able to speak of,) and prepared to turn the keys over to the next owner of my beloved Treehouse.

I spent my last night there alone – Binky-the -wonder-dog having been carted off to my parents’ house, along with Jr in an effort to prevent his particular kind of packing “help,” (pulling everything out of boxes I had just filled whenever I turned away for a half a second;) and The Mr. traveling for business.

It was good that there were no witnesses to that particular brand of emoting – I wandered from room to room with a box of tissues in one hand and a bottle glass of Vhino Verde in the other; delivering long-winded, tear-gargling monologues about all of the fabulous memories each space held for me. There were several instances involving me hugging appliances and doorways, and a declaration of love for the giant patio that was so garbled by sobs and snot that I think I traumatized the next door neighbor’s cat permanently.

It was hours and hours of the textbook example by which to measure all other examples of “ugly cry.”

Last Sunday, the 25th, was the actual anniversary of that shameless emotional evening, and I was feeling particularly sorry for myself thinking back on it, and on the obvious and faultless wonder of The Treehouse and our fabulous perfect life there. Yep – time hadn’t clouded my memories of that At All.

At 3:00 in the morning Binky woke me from my peaceful, urban-dream-filled slumber.  He was pacing and panicking and having a furry meltdown, scratching at the back door.  One eye cracked open as I came downstairs, I popped on the back light expecting to see the dreaded Mega Coon, or our neighbor’s cat (equally menacing and WAY more carnivorous than even Mega Coon.) Nothing was there and my fuzzy first born was LOSING HIS MIND trying to get outside, so I opened the door and out he ran.

Turns out the poor guy had the poo. Like really. Like whoa.

As I watched him, um, dealing with his issue, all over the back yard, I was struck by the memories of a few nights in the city that were very different from that nostalgia and wine soaked last one in our old home.   Memories of past tummy troubles with Binky, of him and me pacing up and down 7th avenue at horrifically early hours of very dark mornings, as he was coping with the aftermath of some mystery something he had snacked down on an earlier walk.     Meanwhile, I was glancing back and forth, nervously aiming my pepper spray and a bag full of dog poo at any noise I perceived on the deserted streets – trying to throw my best crazy-don’t-screw-with-me eyes at the occasional teetering soul who dared pass too close headed home from some booty-call or night cap.

I did not miss that. I did not miss that one damn bit, and I don’t think my sick, miserable doggie missed going up and down in the elevator (that seemed to take FOREVER to come, on those nights in particular,) or trying to work out his issues going back and forth on one narrow patch of grass under a street light, with me standing right on top of him acting like a freakjob. (I know my weaknesses. Solo night time streets pretty much ANYWHERE is one of them.)

In and out went poor Binky for the next 3 hours, from his cozy home directly into his private, large back yard where he could do his doggie business as much as he needed while mom stayed on the sofa inside, sans pepper-spray and nutty faux-ninja-like reactions.

Around the time the sun was coming up, he came in for the last time and laid down overlooking his yard to rest.

I am not confirming or denying anything – but I may have even given that doorway a little hug.

 

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The Universe mocks me in the morning.

Can I just preface this with a confession – I ABHOR lateness.

If we agree on 5 pm for a glass of wine and chat some place, I am the girl who is there at 4:55.

That being said – I suck at mornings. I SUPER SUCK at mornings.

I do everything right the night before: clothes for Jr and myself selected and ready, lunches packed, bags together… I am on top of it.

And then sometime in the middle of the night, shit must just go off the rails. Because come dawn’s early light, getting out the door seems suddenly as difficult as climbing a 14er in a too tight pencil skirt and stilettos.  I can’t get out the damn door in anything even brushing up against the definition of a timely fashion in the mornings.

 

Stuff just happens.

 

This morning we have managed to get coats, hats, gloves, etc on and secured, and I am loading bags out the door and into the car, SO CLOSE to departure that if this was a plane the flight attendants would be in their seats, and Jr declares “MY CAR SNACKS!!”

So I run back though the house to the kitchen to grab his go-cup of Cherrios, just in time to hear the unmistakable sound of Binky-the-wonder-dog starting to throw up… somewhere… off in the distance.

I track down the barf and start cleaning it up, bags still hanging off of every arm – determined to push through and get on the road.

Standing over me, watching this display and snacking down his cereal, Jr inquires “Mom, everyone throws up, right?”

“Yep that is true buddy, everyone is sick sometimes, even doggies.”

“Just like everybody poops? “   Errr…. Ok…. “I’m pooping right now,” he says, standing over me, 4 feet away from the bathroom door.

Add another item to the “to be cleaned up “ list.

 

I sigh and put all of the bags down.

One dumps its contents all over the floor.

Yep.

 

Getting out the door is nothing short of an epic trudge every damn day. You can pack the lunches the night before, but you can’t plan for the poop, people.

Poop happens. And barf. And horrific coffee spills. And “NOT THAT SHIRT, I WANT THE RED SHIRT” wardrobe meltdowns. (Sometimes even from Jr. HA!)

I inevitably end up in the parking lot of Jr’s school taking my first conference call of the day while picking the remnants of a cheerio explosion out of my messy top-knot (sure, we can call that “intentional” messiness. You betcha.)

I have tried getting up earlier. I have tried getting Jr up earlier.

You know what I determined about getting up earlier?   There is just more time for shit to hit the fan and slow you down.

Screw it – I’m sleeping in. Maybe I can get out the door before the universe notices we are even up one of these days.

 

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Pot Pot.

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So this is my dog.

But not really just my dog. 

This is my first born son.  My baby.  The shape of my heart.  This little fuzz bomb gave me my most treasured gift, the title of “mom.”

So last night after dinner it was time for his walkies, and Jr. wanted to go along in the wagon.

The Mr, who always takes Potter out the garage door and hooks him up to the leash, went to go dig the wagon out from behind The Mr-Mobile, and off went the doggie right behind him, as always.

Except I guess my darling hub didn’t notice that Potter-pie was behind him.

Wagon extracted, I was getting Jr settled in when The Mr went inside to get the dog.

“He came out with you, honey.”

“No he didn’t.”

At this point I wheel Jr to the driveway and start calling for Potter.  The Hub goes in the door while stating over his shoulder, “don’t go out there and call for him, because he is inside.”

(Yeah, no.  And now I am panicking, because my beloved Binkeh Baby Doggie is not coming to me and I cannot see his black fluffy perfection anywhere.)

Off I ran, around the outer circle of our little ‘hood, then around the inner one surrounding the pocket park, Jr rumbling along behind me in the wagon.  He pointed out that we were bypassing the playground, but at the same time kept saying “Pot-pot run way Mommy?  When we find Pot-Pot?”

At this point I didn’t know the answer to that question, and I am sure I had the desperation of a junkie looking for a fix in my eyes as I passed neighbors taking their evening strolls and asked each one about a fluffy little black dog on the loose. 

I returned home because I remembered that I didn’t have my phone, and that is the number listed on his collar and on his microchip info, and as I was loading Jr back into the wagon, The Hub walked up with Potter safely on his leash.

He had wiggled his way into the next door neighbor’s back yard, where The Mr. found him sniffing around where some bunnies had been.  Why he didn’t come when I called him, I don’t know.

Cue the crazy relief crying break down from Mommy.  Followed by an entire night of me having at least one hand or foot physically touching his puff, so I knew exactly where he was.

Now Potter is not a runner by any means.  He isn’t one to go bolting off if he steps outside the garage or anything, which is why I was so mortified when I looked around and I couldn’t see him anywhere.

I could see the relief on The Mr’s face too, but of course I got a giant eye roll for my blubbering display.

Don’t care.

Quite simply, I can’t do without my baby dog.  I had to seriously fight the urge to jam his puff into an Ergo and wear him to the office today, where, much to my dismay, I had to come for an actual physical meeting (which happens once in a blue moon, so of course it would be today.)

What can we take from this tale?

2 things:

  1. Maybe that crazy person carrying her little dog around in inappropriate places has a better reason then we imagine.
  2. When your wife says the dog is outside, the dog is outside.  When your wife says anything, that anything is right.  You are welcome.

:::::snuggling best dog ever and providing another treat:::::

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