seven

March 31, 2003

Those of you who have been around here for a while have likely met my dad. And if you’ve REALLY been around for a while, you have probably heard me say that he was a middle school principal for the better part of forty-five years.

At every seventh-grade graduation, my dad would address the audience of proud parents. “Sixty months,” my dad would say. “Sixty months. That’s all you have between now and the time they leave your house. Sixty months.” He’d wait – let them chew on it for a moment. A gymnasium full of heads would slowly begin to nod as they took it in. Their kids were off to high school. Five years later, they’d likely, in some form or another, be heading out into the world. Five years sounded like a lot. Sixty months did not.

Luau and I took the girls to the last moving-up ceremony over which my father presided before his retirement. Just as he always had, he reminded the room full of parents and grandparents just how fast their time with their children would fly by. I looked around as he spoke. While the parents in the crowd looked surprised, the grandparents nodded knowingly. Some wiped away tears.

My dad never stops reminding me how short a parent’s time is with their child. Every time he visits, there’s a point at which he looks at the girls, wells up, then turns to me with his head shaking and says, “That was you, Jessie. I swear, just five minutes ago, that was YOU.”

When Katie turned nine recently, he immediately told me that I had less than a year before she was in the double digits. Seven before she was driving. “For God sake, Dad,” I said, “can’t ya just let her be nine?”

He laughed. Because after all, that’s the whole point of the exercise – making sure that I remember how fast the time will slip through my fingers. Reminding me to cherish each and every age – each and every phase, stage and moment. Because no matter how trying any of them may be, they are finite. Our children grow up.

Today, my baby girl turns seven. It makes no sense to me. Seven. No matter how many times I say it, it still sounds like someone somewhere must have forgotten to carry the one. There’s got to be a mistake. Seven.

But no, there’s no mistake. Somehow, it has actually been seven years since the day the nurse first handed me my beautiful baby girl. Seven years since the day that my heart exploded without warning, splitting open to make room for her to crawl right in. She made herself a home there. She’s never left.

In these seven years my little girl has taught me so very much more than I could ever dream of teaching her. She has shown me what it means to love without judgement. She has led me to a well of compassion and empathy and understanding. She has pushed me to be a better mother, a stronger person, a more open friend and far more engaged member of a community.

She has taught me that each and every one of us has a responsibility to learn from and about one other, to share our stories, to look past our fears, our insecurities, our discomfort – to find the people underneath what we think we see.

She’s taught me that love doesn’t always use – and never needs – words. She’s taught me to slow down. She’s pushed me – nay, forced me – to find my voice. And to trust it. She’s given me so much more than I could ever ask of a child. I hope to God I’ve given her just a fraction of it in return.

My sweet girl,

You are laughter. You are determination. You are grace. You are joy. You are love.

I am proud beyond my wildest dreams to call you my daughter.

As you turn seven today, please know that your Mama loves you more than the moon, the stars and everything in between.

Love,

One very lucky mama

March, 2010

perfect – part two

OK, so we left off at Sephora, right? Well, sort of. Actually. we left off running like the wind from Sephora, followed by Katie crying all the way home after breaking a mirror at the Laura Mercier counter on the way out of the mall. Good times, huh?

And what was that conversation that I told you we’d had in the car on the way home? Oh yes, me sounding very motherly as I rambled on about how no one is perfect. And what was it that I told Katie? Ah, yes. “Please understand that EVERYBODY makes mistakes. No one is immune from them. No one is perfect, honey. NO ONE. As long as we try our best, that’s all anyone can ask. And most importantly, that’s all we can ask of ourselves. OK?”

Right.

The next day, Luau and I went together to pick the girls up from school. Brooke had speech therapy, which is typically boring as all get out for Katie. Since Luau and I were both free, we decided to divide and conquer. Luau would drop Brooke off at speech and then go for a run. I would take Katie back to the mall so that I could actually find the eye shadow that I’d attempted to look for the day before. Then she and I would pick Brooke up at speech an hour later. The plan simply reeked of efficiency and precision. (Which usually foreshadows some sort of disaster in my world.)

Katie couldn’t have been happier to hear that she was headed to the mall. She didn’t have to sit through speech AND she got to go to Sephora with Mama ALONE. She was beaming.

We stopped off at the coffee shop for an iced latte. We bought a very pink, very sugary cookie. We casually perused the department store make-up counters, taking our sweet old time. We walked down to Sephora, slowly ambling up and down the aisles. She covered herself in glitter. She slathered on hot pink lip gloss even though she knew Mama would make her take it off IMMEDIATELY.

We tried perfumes. Some we loved; some we didn’t. We made up a scoring system. The lowest score was called ‘Smells suspiciously like bug spray.’ The highest was called, ‘Ooh, baby, tell Daddy I want this for Mother’s Day!’ We scoured the sale shelf for bargains. We tried creams and gels and powders. Almost as a side note, we found a fabulous eye shadow.

As I was paying, I looked down at my watch. And panicked. It was 4:25. We were supposed to pick up Brooke at 4:30. A minimum of ten minutes away. I had completely lost track of time.

For the second time in as many days, Katie and I high-tailed it out of Sephora. I nearly dragged her through the parking lot as we ran to the car. I was in a frenzy. I was angry at myself. I had completely forgotten to watch the clock. How the hell could I get so wrapped up with one kid that I virtually forgot about the other?

As we drove, I called the center and told the receptionist that we were running late. According to the clock, I had four more minutes. “I just wanted to let y’all know so that if she gets out and we’re not there, Miss Sara will be able to explain.”

“Oh,” said the receptionist, sounding confused, “she’s already out. She gets out at 4:20.”

I stuttered something – I have no idea what – and told her that I’d be there just as soon as I could. She assured me that Brooke was happily playing in the waiting area and that she’d keep an eye on her for me.

Luau had said 4:30. I was sure of it. But damn it, I should have known. I’m her mom. It’s my job to know this stuff. And to remember that I’m picking her up in the first place, for God’s sake.

“Mama, are you OK?” Katie asked from the back seat.

“Huh? Oh, yes, honey, I’m OK.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m OK, honey, I just feel really badly that we lost track of time and I’m worried about Brooke.”

“Mama, it’s OK. Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying, Katie. I’m OK.”

“The backs of your ears are red, Mama. That means you’re gonna cry.”

I didn’t say anything. I didn’t trust my voice not to prove her right.

“Hey, Mama?”

“Mmm hmm?”

“I think this is just like yesterday.”

“Huh? What do you mean, baby?”

“Yesterday, Mama. Don’t you remember what you told me when I broke the mirror? No one’s perfect Mama. No one. I know you’re gonna run in and hug her, but I’m just tellin’ ya, I’m sure she’s fine. No one’s perfect. OK?”

We arrived at the center at 4:34. We sprinted through the parking lot and burst through the door to find Miss Brooke spinning in the receptionist’s chair. She was not only no worse for the wear, she actually looked pretty darn happy.

I thanked the receptionist prefusely as I hugged my girl just a little too tight.

As we all walked out into the late afternoon together, Katie looked up at me with a crooked grin. “I told you, Mama.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” I said. “You sure did.”

Yeah, I’d say she got the message; wouldn’t you?

annie

OK, so I know I was in the middle of a story and the obvious implication was that I’d deliver the ending today. But indulge me, won’t you? Because it’s going to have to wait.

I swear I’m not trying to be coy. To be honest, I’m not even sure that Friday’s story is worthy of its cliff-hanger status. Actually, I’m pretty sure that it isn’t. I really only split it into parts so that it wouldn’t be too long to read in a single sitting. You see, I have a tendency to ramble on and well .. um, what was I saying? Oh yeah, rambling. Sorry.

Anyway, the second half of the story is going to have to continue to hang onto its cliff until tomorrow because something happened on Friday. Something that I have to share with you RIGHTHISVERYSECOND. Something that I know you will GET. Something that prompted this utter non-poet to create the following two lines. Check it out – they even rhyme.

It may well be the simplest thing
That sets a heart aloft on Hope’s transcendent wing.

So, while I’m sorry to keep you waiting, I’m hoping you’ll understand why.

***

Friday morning, before school

I held Brooke’s backpack open as she slowly extracted its contents. She pulled out her binder and homework folder and dropped them on the floor with a thwack. Next, she cajoled her lunch sack out, then stood on her tip-toes to push it into its place on the top of her locker.

Annie* came bouncing down the hallway. She stopped at her own locker, right next to Brooke’s.

“Hi, Brooke,” she said smiling.

“Hi, Annie,” Brooke answered.

Brooke looked at the floor. To no one in particular she added, “I like spending time with her.” The script. Brooke can’t say Annie’s name without following it with, “I like spending time with her.”

“Brooke, honey,” I said quietly, “why don’t you tell her that?”

Annie was watching us intently as she hung up her coat.

Brooke took a step toward Annie. From no more than twelve inches away from her she said softly, “I like spending time with you.”

“Thanks, Brooke,” Annie said. She was grinning.

“Annie,” I said, helping Brooke to hang up her coat, “we had a really good time when you came over to our house. We’d love to have you again sometime.”

Brooke took a step back and stood quietly by my side. It was the only time I’d ever seen her linger in the hallway. She had interrupted her precious routine – First the binder and folder, then the lunch sack, then she walks to the door and says with a sing-song lilt, “Can I come in now?” – Instead, she stood next to me.

As I nudged the last corner of her too-big back-pack into her too-small locker, Annie said the following. And in so doing, took away any hope of me telling you anything other than this today.

“Or maybe Brooke could come over to my house.”

Yes, it may well be the simplest thing
That sets a heart aloft on Hope’s transcendent wing.

(The rest of the other story tomorrow – pinky swear.)

perfect – part one

**

**

After Katie’s parent-teacher conference, the girls and I arranged to meet friends for a scoop of ice cream at the mall. Granted, it was an ambitious endeavor, but Brooke was enticed by the promise of chocolate in the middle of the afternoon and well, it was worth a shot, right?

With the help of my iPhone, she made it through for much longer than I would have expected, but eventually she needed to walk.

What Mama needed was some new eye shadow. OK, fine, so no one actually NEEDS new eye shadow. Please don’t nit-pick. It’s impolite. Anyway, in what can only be described as a bout of amnesia, I completely forgot who the hell we are and suggested that the three of us head over to Sephora. You know, cause that’s such a good idea.

Have you ever been to a Sephora? If there’s even the slightest bit of girly-girl hidden anywhere in your DNA, go. The store is set up in long aisles, each stuffed to the gills with products .. glorious, sparkly, smelly, shiny, colorful, glittery products. And every single one of those products is open and available to TRY! It’s Katie’s idea of heaven. She begs to go there just to smell the perfumes and puff the glittery powder puffs and paint our lips with shiny gloss.

But all three of us? Really? That sounded like a good idea?

Let’s reframe.

Aisles full of different textures! Things to TOUCH! Millions of tiny glass pebbles in the jars displaying the make-up brushes! Rows and rows of open tubs of colorful creams and powders! Waxy, smooth lipsticks! Open tubes of sticky, gooey, shiny gloss! Have I mentioned that my daughter lives for textured, tactile adventure? I may as well have brought a coke addict to the local crack house. Not the best plan.

I did what I could to direct Brooke to things that I thought would cause the least amount of destruction. The glass pebbles in the brush jars seemed like a good place to start, but eventually we had to move from them if I was going to look at eye shadow.

Katie and Brooke stood next to me as I bent down to look at a color that the shop girl had recommended. I smoothed it onto my hand to see it on my skin. I’m pretty sure the process had taken approximately twelve seconds. Maybe thirteen. Which was just enough time for this -

“Um, Mama. Look what Brooke did.”

Not exactly the words a mother hopes to hear.

My youngest daughter was doing her best impression of Godspell Jesus meets dime store hooker. She had a shock of ruby red lipstick not only smeared across her mouth, but also drawn into a blurred approximation of a heart in the middle of her forehead. The lipstick was still in her hand.

Oh. Dear. Lord.

I got Brooke cleaned up as well as I could, thanked the nice lady for her time, and told her I’d come back the next day sans my little Godspell Jesus slash harlot in training. Then we ran for the door.

Leaving the mall, we passed through another store’s make-up department. Since I always like to compound bad decisions, I took a ‘quick peek’ at the nearest counter. At least I held onto Brooke this time. Katie climbed up into a chair and looked at herself in a handheld mirror. And then dropped it, shattering it all over the tile floor.

The ladies were extremely kind and accepted her apology as graciously as humanly possible. They were simply pleased that she wasn’t hurt.

Katie, however was a wreck. She cried all the way out to the car, wracked with guilt for having been careless. I reminded her that no one is perfect. I told her that she’s a kid. Kids drop stuff. It happens.

“But Mama,” I wasn’t being careful, she said with a dramatic sniffle.

“No, baby,” I said. “You weren’t as careful as you could have been. But you learned a lesson for next time. In the meantime, please understand that EVERYBODY makes mistakes. No one is immune from them. No one is perfect, honey. NO ONE. As long as we try our best, that’s all anyone can ask. And most importantly, that’s all we can ask of ourselves. OK?”

She said, “OK,” but I wasn’t convinced that she really got it.

Until the very next day, when she threw my words right back at me – and showed her mama in no uncertain terms which of us REALLY needs to get the message.

To be continued.

* image from www.fashionmefabulous.com

three’s a crowd

**

See, See my playmate

Come out and play with me

And bring your dollies three

Climb up my apple tree

Holler down my rain barrel

Slide down my cellar door

And we’ll be jolly friends

For ever more.

~ Phillip Wingate

**

At every play date I notice our uninvited guest. It doesn’t ask if it’s OK to join us; it just shows up. It’s awkward and it’s messy and it leaves its mark on everything we do. And as much as I like to think of myself as a gracious host, once in a while I’d really like it to get the hell out of my house.

**

Brooke was still in her pajamas. She ran to the front door and rapped on the window. Knock knock knock. She looked through the glass expectantly.

“Is Annie* here yet?” she asked.

I looked at my watch. It was 8:30 a.m.

“Not yet, sweetheart. Annie will be here at eleven o’clock. We still have two and a half hours before she gets here.”

She turned away from the window and looked around the entryway as though searching for something she’d just put down and couldn’t find. She turned back to the window. “Is it two and a half hours now?”

Brooke asked for a play date with Annie nearly three weeks ago. Luau had reached out to Annie’s mom right away, but alas, even the best laid plans don’t always work as we hope they will. Our first date had to be cancelled when poor Annie was sick with the flu. The second fell to the wayside when we realized we’d booked it on the same day as a home consultation with Brooke’s behavioral therapist. Valid reasons didn’t make waiting any easier.

And so it was that every single day for the past three weeks, Brooke had asked for a play date with Annie. Every day she said, “I will have a play date with Annie.” Every day she said, “I like spending time with her.” And every day she said, “She will come to my house and we will make cookies with chocolate chips.”

Even after the twentieth time, the script hadn’t lost its charm. Brooke wanted a friend to come over. I swear I would have moved heaven and earth to find a way to make it happen.

So there we were on Sunday morning – chocolate chip cookie ingredients at the ready and one little girl ready to burst out of her skin.

Annie showed up raring to go. After exchanging pleasantries, her mom headed out to do some shopping. Annie was sweet and poised and happy to chat and bake. She talked a mile a minute, her speech marked by the typical first-grade lilt at the end of each sentence. She made conversation with me as we measured and poured. I did my best to rein Brooke in as she ran in circles around the kitchen, lighting just long enough to take her turn pouring sugar or flour into the bowl before resuming her laps. Annie seemed unfazed, telling me how she and her mom bake cookies too and how she can break the eggs herself and she’s really good about not getting the shells in and how her babysitter makes these really delicious ones with cinnamon in them and how her brothers really love them and they can eat a million of them at a time and oh, so we read this book in class the other day and it was about this long journey and how sometimes it’s really about the journey, not where you’re going and Ooooh, Brooke – it’s your turn to pour now.

She was delightful. And it was killing me.

I tried hard to bring the conversation back to Brooke. “Honey, why don’t you ask Annie if she has any pets.”

“Annie, do you have any pets?” she asked as she grabbed a handful of chips from the measuring cup.

“I do! We have a dog. She’s a girl. Her name is Lavender.” Brooke wandered off into the den. Annie didn’t seem to notice. “So it’s good that she’s a girl. Cause Lavender would be a pretty funny name for a boy dog, don’t you think? Oh, and she’s not really lavender, she’s kinda brown.”

I thought we’d lost Brooke completely, but she came back into the kitchen carrying Katie’s stuffed spaniel – the one we joke is our’ family dog’. She laid him down on the counter in front of Annie. it took me a minute to realize why.

“Brooke, honey, are you showing Albo to Annie?”

“Yeah. He’s our dog,” she said as she headed off again.

As the cookies baked, I sent the girls up to Brooke’s room to play. I wasn’t sure what the hell to do with myself. I was trying desperately to heed Brooke’s aide’s advice. She had very gently told me to just let them go. “They play together at school,” she’d said. “Just let them run around. They’ll be fine.”

For better or worse, I’ve grown accustomed to facilitating Brooke’s play dates to within an inch of their lives. The last one we had, I may as well have bought the kid a pony to make sure she was having fun. I’d set up a cupcake bar. I’d put out twenty kinds of toppings to decorate with. There was sugar in every color of the rainbow. There were marshmallows and chocolate chips and sprinkles and crystal stars. They’d listened to music and played with play-doh and finally eaten not one, but two cupcakes each.

But I was trying. I hung down in the kitchen and busied myself cleaning up.

When I made my way upstairs to ask if they were ready for lunch, I found Brooke’s door closed. I knocked and opened it. Brooke had pulled nearly all of her dress-up clothes from the closet and spread them across the floor. She was dressed as a very pink princess. Annie was lounging on Brooke’s reading chair looking bored. I asked Brooke if she had asked Annie if she wanted to dress up too.

“Annie, do you wanna dress up too?” she asked.

“No thanks,” Annie said.

I felt like I’d let her down. I looked around the room for something to suggest. Brooke found a game that she wanted to play. Annie seemed marginally interested. I did my best to explain the rules to Annie and then made myself scarce again. I headed back to the kitchen to prepare lunch.

Over lunch, Annie chatted and Brooke ate. Annie must have mentioned her ‘best friend’ at least forty-six times. OK, so it was only four times, but somehow it stung every time. Brooke talks about Annie ALL. THE. TIME. She adores her. She seems to feel like she’s connected with her. So forty-six times I found myself wanting to say, “Hey, kid. We get it. You have a best friend. Mazel Tov, but let’s move on now, huh?” I didn’t.

After lunch, I brought the girls outside to play. And they did. At opposite ends of the swing set. Again, I tried to gently prompt. I felt like Big Foot trying to sneak into a tea party, but I felt like I had to do something.

“Hey, Brooke,” I began. “How about showing Annie how you do Jack and Jill?”

It’s one of her favorites. She climbs the steps of the play set with a bucket, comes down the slide and tumbles to the ground while singing Jack and Jill. It’s always been a hit with guests.

“Annie, you would be Jill and I’ll be Jack,” she said as she ran off with the bucket. She offered no further explanation, so Annie stayed put.

“Honey, can you ask her if she’d like to come with you?” I said.

“Hey, Jill, do you wanna come with me?” she yelled behind her.

Annie made a half-hearted attempt to follow along.

“Hey, Annie,” Brooke said at the bottom of the slide. “Do you want to do Jack and the Beanstalk now?”

“Sure,” Annie said to Brooke’s back as she ran off.

Brooke ran into the brush along the side of our yard, working her way through the tangle of bushes and branches toward her favorite tree. Once again, Annie stayed put.

I was getting tired. And sad. And frustrated.

Not a single interaction is easy. Not one. Not one comes naturally or flows freely. Every single overture takes thought and explanation and prompting. I looked over at Brooke. I could barely see her. She was hidden in a tangle of branches and leaves. I suggested that she ask Annie to join her and that she explain to her that the tree was in fact the beanstalk.

Annie pushed her way through the brush to join Brooke. I could see that she was uncomfortable. Anyone but the most sensory seeking little being would be. Jack and the beanstalk never had a chance to materialize.

When Annie’s babysitter came to pick her up, I was relieved. I hoped she’d had a good time. I hoped she’d want to come back. Honestly, I really wasn’t sure. But I hoped.

I closed the door as she left. Brooke said, “I had a play date with Annie. I like spending time with her.”

And my heart broke just a little.

china?

**

Katie and I drove home from a delightful ‘big girls’ lunch’ on Thursday afternoon. She talked excitedly in the back of the car.

“So, Mama,” she said – talking a mile a minute. “I can’t wait til we get to meet the dogs on Saturday! I mean, you have to figure we’re going to get one, don’t you, Mama? I mean, honestly, what are the odds that we go and see them and we DON’T get one? Right? I mean, right?”

“Katie,” I said, trying hard to sound like a grown-up, “I really need you to be prepared for the fact that we may very well walk out of there without a dog. We’re looking for our Charlie, honey – a very special little puppy. And if we don’t find him or her on Saturday, we have to be prepared to keep looking. I need you to understand that that’s a very real possibility, little one.”

“OK,” she said soberly. “I do understand, Mama. I really do. But I’m just telling you, if we DO leave without a dog, I’m probably going to cry. I’ll understand, but I’ll cry.”

Oy.

“All right, Katie,” I said, “I’d like to try to look at this another way. I know it will be sad if we leave without a dog on Saturday, but we’ve said that we know that OUR Charlie is out there, right?”

“Right,” she said.

“Well, if we know that OUR Charlie is out there somewhere, then don’t you think that if we got a dog just because we wanted a dog, but it wasn’t the RIGHT dog, then that would be even sadder? Because then we’d be leaving our Charlie out there in the world without us. Isn’t that a lot sadder, really?”

“Yeah,” she conceded. “That would be worse I guess.”

**

On Saturday morning, we piled into the car and drove the forty-five minutes to the breeder’s house. As soon as we stepped out of the car, Brooke grabbed onto my leg and asked me to pick her up. “I would stay up on you,” she said. I wasn’t going to argue.

We walked into the breeder’s small storefront, out of which they run a small pet supply shop, a grooming business and a doggie day-care. Two of the three Cavies that we’d come to see were in open play-pens in the middle of the shop. The third had been adopted during the week.

From the moment that we walked into the shop, the older of the two puppies (a seven month old) jumped up and down. And up and down. And up and down. She skittered across her pen, climbing the walls, looking awfully close to making a break for it. She was a whirling, twirling, leaping fur-ball of unbridled energy. Brooke tightened her grip around my neck.

The little guy – an adorable twelve week old Blenham – followed the example of his older pal. He ran and jumped and bit at the sides of his pen. And, just for good measure, he barked. A lot. I leaned down and put my hand near the side of the pen. Little teeth dug into my flesh.

Katie didn’t move. She didn’t ask a single question. She made no move to pet a dog or to even get particularly close to either of them. Brooke simply held onto Mama.

Luau and I looked at each other. We didn’t need to say it. Neither of these dogs was Charlie. Not even close.

The breeder had picked up the phone. We murmured something about ‘high energy level’ and ‘thanks very much, but not really appropriate’ and headed for the door. Our visit had lasted approximately four minutes.

**

As we drove back home, I thought back to the rest of Thursday’s conversation.

We had driven quietly for a few minutes. And then Katie had broken the silence.

“Mama?”

“Yes, baby?”

“I know our Charlie’s out there somewhere. I mean, every thing’s got to be somewhere, right?”

“Right, honey. Absolutely.”

I had peeked in the rear view mirror at my girl. I would have sworn I saw the corner of her mouth curl ever so slightly into a smirk as she said, ”But Mama?’

“Yes, honey?”

“I really hope he’s not in China.”

**

There were no tears on Saturday, even though we came home empty-handed. It was just too obvious that neither of those puppies was OUR puppy. Our little family seemed to be at peace with knowing that we’ll find our Charlie when he’s ready to be found, and that it might take some time.

And according to Katie, a possible trip to China.

finding charlie

**

I know what I’d said – The trip to the pet store was exploratory only. We would NOT be bringing a dog home with us. There are a million reasons why one doesn’t buy a dog from a pet store – And I’d meant it. Every word of it. I swear.

But I was starting to waiver. I mean, you try sitting on the floor with the world’s sweetest little puppy on your lap, licking your hand, looking up at you with those big, gooey, full-of-love puppy dog eyes and then tell me about conviction.

So yeah, I started asking about price and making a check-list of what we’d need to bring him home RIGHT THAT VERY SECOND. But as it turned out, Chunk (his real name) had what the store owner called a ‘cold’. He explained to us, therefore, that we would not be able to take him home that day. He was awaiting a vet check later in the week at which he would presumably be cleared for adoption.

I swear, those words may well have been Divine Intervention.

I knew (much as I may not have FELT, I KNEW) that this was NOT the way for us to buy a dog. More than that, this wasn’t the way for us to adopt a new member into our family. For years, I’ve heard the heartbreaking stories of dogs kept in puppy mills throughout the country. As much as I’d fallen in love with that adorable little guy, I just couldn’t be a party to supporting that kind of treatment of innocent animals.

I also knew that little Chunk doesn’t need to be ‘rescued’ from his temporary home at the pet store. With those eyes, he will no doubt find a loving family within short order. In the meantime, it’s obvious that he’s in good hands. The store staff obviously adores him and although he isn’t constantly running free, he is in a relatively expansive enclosure. Yes, Chunk will be just fine.

And so it was that we left the store without our Charlie. I explained to BOTH of the girls (I’m still giddy that I had to explain to BOTH of the girls! Do you mind if I say it just one more time? I explained to BOTH of the girls .. whooopeeee!) that Chunk was a wonderful little doggie who would no doubt be a great friend to a different family, but that he wasn’t our Charlie. I told them that we would work on finding our Charlie – that he or she (best part of the name, don’t you think??) is out there somewhere and that Mama was going to find him/her.

The short version of the now very long story is that we have an appointment to visit a breeder on Saturday. She has three very promising puppies for us to meet, and she has agreed to allow us to meet them one at a time, in as quiet an environment as she can manage to create. I am grateful for her sensitivity to Brooke’s fears.

Katie is beside herself with excitement.

In the meantime, I keep checking in with Brooke – testing her conviction. When I picked her up at school on Tuesday, another mom had a Cavie on a leash. As soon as she spotted the dog, Brooke climbed up my leg like a koala and clung to me for dear life. I looked at her aide, thinking, ‘Well, maybe she’s not really ready for this.”

“Hey, Brooke, honey,” I said. “That’s a dog just like Charlie. Are you sure you still want a dog like that to come and live in our house?”

“Yup,” she responded.

At pick-up yesterday, her aide could barely contain her excitement. “You HAVE to see what’s in her back-pack!” she said. “It was totally, 100% completely independent! Wait until you see it!”

And there it was. Proof positive that once again, nothing will stop my kid – not even one of her greatest fears. I keep picturing that day at the State Fair this summer. The day that she stood next to her sister with her hands clamped over her ears, pointing to the noisiest ride on the fairgrounds. “I would go on THAT one,” she’d said.

Yes, our Charlie is out there. And hopefully, we’ll be meeting him (or her) on Saturday. Which is a good thing, because .. well .. see for yourself ..

“I want a puppy. He says Woof Woof.”

Brooke, March 17, 2010

plugging the dam

.

.

.

All things canine will have to wait a few days, my friends. I promise to tell Charlie’s story as it unfolds, but for now, its ending remains unwritten.

In the meantime, I’m at Hopeful Parents today plugging the dam. Or at least trying.

Hope to see you there!

puppy dog eyes

**

“OOh, Mama!” Katie squealed as we rounded the corner toward the pet shop. “It’s puppy play time!”

“What the heck is puppy play time?” I asked. My words landed somewhere between her back and the pet shop door that was already closing behind her as she ran in.

Puppies were everywhere. Katie looked at me breathlessly as one careened past, grazing her leg. “Mama, aren’t they just the cutest things you’ve EVER seen?” she asked.

Truthfully, I wasn’t terribly moved. I don’t mind dogs. I like them far more than their feline counterparts – but I’m just not one to go weak in the knees over them. “Sure, honey,” I answered without much enthusiasm. “They’re very cute.”

Earlier that morning, Splooshy the fish had passed into the great fishy beyond. Katie had assured me that she’d be OK this time. “Mama,” she’d said soberly. “I’m all right. I’ve been through this before.” She assured me that Splooshy would now have the chance to meet his predecessor, Spaulding in fish heaven. And approximately forty-five seconds later, she made me promise we could go to the fish store and get a replacement. So there we were.

Katie was in all her glory, hanging out on the floor between a Shitzu and a Chihuahua. Bored, I turned around and looked at the puppies that were still in their enclosures. Sitting there looking back at me was a five-month old Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.

And I was done for.

**

For years, Katie has been begging for two things – a dog and a cell phone. This post is not about why she’s not getting a cell phone. Suffice to say she’s NINE. Right. So no cell phone. That one’s easy.

But a dog is thornier, more complicated.

Luau has been pining for a dog since the day that I met him. We even thought about it early on in our relationship, but it just didn’t seem right to leave the poor little thing alone in a tiny apartment all day. So we fantasized about the day we’d finally get one. Or two. Yes, it was two. As soon as we had a house and a yard, we’d said. Then we’d have a dog.

By the time we had a house and a yard, we also had a baby on the way. We didn’t move out of the city until I was very pregnant with Katie and by then it just didn’t feel like it made sense. So we’d wait until the baby was old enough, we’d said. Then we’d have a dog.

One baby quickly turned to two and before we knew it, the babies were toddlers and then the toddlers were children. And one of those children happens to have a profound fear of dogs. Maybe when the kids are much older, we’d said. Then maybe we’d have a dog.

Over the years, friends and family suggested that the best way to help Brooke through her fear would be to bring a dog into the family. While I understood their logic, I firmly believed that having a dog in her house would have been torture for my girl. I couldn’t possibly fathom why we would CREATE so much more anxiety for her in the one place that we try so desperately to RELIEVE her anxiety. It just didn’t make sense.

Until now.

Things are different. Brooke is different. She is still anxious. She is still afraid. She still scrambles up our leg when she’s sees a dog coming near. But it’s different. There are words. There’s logic. There’s communication and understanding. And above all, there’s something I never saw coming.

**

Katie and I left the pet store, but the little Cavie just wouldn’t leave me alone. He haunted me. I even named him. Charlie. I started trolling the Internet, learning as much as I could about the breed and their typical traits and demeanor. Sweet, loving, fantastic with children. I was quickly headed over the edge.

Despite my best efforts, we couldn’t manage to get an appointment with a local breeder on Sunday, nor did the local shelters have anything remotely similar or even suitable. So we decided to take a very risky trip to the pet store. I explained to Katie in no uncertain terms that this was exploratory only. That we would NOT be bringing a dog home with us. That there are a million reasons why one doesn’t buy a dog from a pet store. And then I told myself. Exploratory. Not bringing a dog home. Million reasons. Got it.

We piled into the car after lunch and headed out to the shop. It was pouring rain and the day thus far had been tumultuous at best. Brooke was on edge long before we ever stepped foot in the door. The timing couldn’t have been worse.

While Luau took Brooke to wander through the fish and frog tanks, Katie and I asked to see the little Cavie. They brought him out and let him sit with us on the floor. Charlie showered us in kisses. Katie was in love. So was I.

It took some convincing to get Brooke to come over to see him. She insisted on staying on Luau’s shoulders and asked him again and again to stand up high. He gently refused, trying to get her accustomed to at least some proximity. She hooted and howled when Charlie came too close. She shook anxiously when he approached the water bowl near where she was standing. She finally managed to touch his back gingerly while I held him, but she had no interest in going anywhere near his head.

Over and over again she said to him, “It’s OK, doggie. Don’t be afraid.”

She was giving it everything she had.

When it was time for the little Cavie to go back into his enclosure, we stood up. Luau and Katie left the shop, headed to a nearby store where she could use the ladies’ room. Brooke and I roamed around the pet store, looking at the various types of fish. She was staying close to me, warily peeking over at the dogs to make sure they were secured in their enclosures.

After a few minutes, Luau popped his head in to let us know they were ready to go.

And as we walked to the door, my sweet, frightened little girl – the one with the profound fear of dogs – said the last thing I ever expected to hear from her.

“Can Charlie come home with us?”

***

To be continued …

home

**

“Home is not where you live, but where they understand you.”

~ Christian Morganstern

“Home is a name, a word. It is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.”

~ Charles Dickens

“There is a magic in that little world – home. It is a mystic circle that surrounds comforts and virtues never known beyond its hallowed limits.”

~ Robert Southey

“Nor need we power or splendour, wide hall or lordly dome; the good, the true the tender, these form the wealth of home.

~ Sarah Hale

“We have to get the baby animals home to their Mommies. Will you help us?”

~ Dora the Explorer

**

Luau’s laptop is perched across my legs. I slowly scan through old posts, methodically changing names. I’m bleary-eyed; but I’m making progress. I’ve finally crossed the threshold into 2010.

Brooke is snuggled into the crook of my arm watching Dora the Explorer on TV. Dora and her cousin Diego are taking various baby animals home to their mothers.

“Do you see the baby elephant’s Mommy?” Dora asks.

Brooke suddenly stands up and turns to face me.

“Can you ask me where your home is?”

We constantly work to reshape these kinds of interactions. The kind that start with, “Can you ask me ..” or, “Could you say ..”

But I’m tired. I play along.

“Sure, baby. Where is your home?”

She looks dismayed. Something obviously isn’t right.

“No, could you ask me where YOUR home is?”

Brooke’s pronouns were confused for a long, long time. Now it seems that her Mama is confused by the very LACK of confusion. Poor kid. No wonder she gets frustrated.

“Oh, OK, honey. Where is MY home?”

With a flourish, she jumps up and curls her entire little body into my lap. The computer goes tumbling. I reach for it with my one free hand and barely manage to push it onto the coffee table in front of us.

Brooke nuzzles in. Her left hand reaches for the back of my neck and the right settles on my chest, resting on top of my heart. Her head is buried in my shoulder. She is silent.

I’m lost. I feel like I missed a memo.

“Brooke, honey? Where’s my home?”

Very quietly, she answers.

“Right here.”

I rest my head on top of hers.

Dora, Diego and Boots are singing.

“Lo hicimos! We did it!”

And my baby girl is absolutely right.

I

AM

HOME.