Infertility Darth-Vader’ed me to the Dark Side of being a Dog Lover

I always knew I only wanted 1 child.  I never once had visions of family vacations with my “children”, or huge holiday events with a big family I spawned… nor have I ever once felt bad about Sullivan not having any siblings.  I have replaced myself in the natural order of human population, and my job is done.  I am also well aware of my limitations, and I only have room enough in my psychological and emotional stability for 1 child.   I had my one child early in my adulthood, and I have my herd of cats, and it’s all good… right?  Apparently my hormones did not think so… and I had never realized just how powerful hormones are.  They are so powerful that they can turn a Crazy Cat Lady into an even crazier Pocket Dog Owner (dog purse and matching decorative leash to boot).

In the beginning of January, a slew of tumors discovered on my cervix were stamped with the “Cancer” diagnosis.  I don’t want this information to evoke any emotion from anyone, because I feel melodramatic even mentioning it (but it’s the entire reason why I am now I creepy Pocket Dog owner, so I am going to mention it).  I am in no way a “Cancer survivor” or even a person “Living with Cancer”… I am at best a “Cancer Tourist”.  I have had many friends who have lived with cancer, died from cancer, or have very much earned the title of  “survivor”.  I did not earn a thing.  I got tagged by cancer and got kicked around a tiny bit by the emotional turmoil it brings with it- but all it took for me to escape it’s clutches was having half my cervix removed, and from now on I need to have biopsies every 6-8 weeks to keep an eagle-eye out for new growths to promptly chop off until there is nothing left of my ill-behaved cervix.  I caught it early and am lucky (ladies… you had all better be getting your pap smears religiously, because the ONLY reason I’m lucky is because I’m religious about my lady-checkups).  But I officially can never have any more kids…. and I’m so very much totally ok with that because the last thing I need is more babies.

What I’ve always found funny about people is that once we’re told we can’t have something, that’s the one thing we want.   After the chop-chop of my cervix, I found myself getting increasingly clingy with the little things in my home.  I kept trying to cuddle and baby the cats far more than they are comfortable with.  I began hovering and smothering Sullivan with maternal coddling FAR more than a 13 year old boy could EVER be comfortable with.  I wasn’t coherently thinking “baby baby baby baby I need a baby baby baby” because knew I didn’t want a baby… but I was trying to make all the self-sufficient creatures around me to be more infantile and dependent on me.   This desperate need to nurture SOMETHING exploded in me.  I was creeping myself out, but I couldn’t really stop it.

About 6 weeks ago my BFF that I work with came running into my office and asked me if I wanted a puppy.  She saved a puppy from a kill shelter, but her dog and the puppy didn’t get along and she wanted to find a new happy home for it STAT.   All afternoon I fought it, but my ovaries were screaming “SAVE THE BABY!!”.  I texted Brad about 50 times debating all the reasons why we couldn’t have a dog in an attempt to talk my crazed maternal drive out of caring for another baby, but he finally said “You know you want the damn thing. Just bring it home”.  And that was that.

I am now thoroughly convinced that someone should have given Octomom a litter of unwanted puppies before she had her litter of babies, much trauma could have been avoided.  From the moment I got the puppy, all maternal screamings were quieted, and she was my new baby.  I have gone from being the adamant cat-lady disgusted with dogs to being that creepy dog owner that carries my dog around in my purse, taking her with me on all errand-running outings, and she has attached to me the way a toddler clings to it’s mother’s leg.  She’s part Chihuahua, and they usually only really bond with 1 person in a family- and despite how much Sully wanted her to be ‘his dog’ – she’s 100% mine.

So I introduce you to my little Chihuahua/Weiner dog (technically called a Chiuweenie) – Monkey.  She’s pretty much the best.  And our cats HATE her.

They day we got her, only 4 pounds.

My little sleeper!!

 

My neighbor and I and our matching Chihuahuas

 

The only time I've seen her NOT torturing poor old Oscar

So that’s my story.  From this point on when I obsessively talk about my dog, it is because she is literally my new baby.  And for all you out there who think you might want babies- get a puppy first.  It might just take care of that maternal drive and save you shit tons of money (and your dog will never steal your car when it’s a teenager).

The end.

 

 

My mom was a superhero (and I was an ungrateful little prick)

I was raised in immaculate surroundings.  Spotless floors, dustless fans, sparkling windows… even the inside of the damn refrigerator sparkled.  Everything had its place.  Everything was wonderfully organized.  Everything was perfect- always.  And the older I get, the less I understand how my mother did it.  Seriously- it blows my mind.

My parents had “traditional roles” until I was in high school, then my mom went back to work.  My dad took care of the yard, the cars, repairs around the house, etc; and my mom handled the house and the kids.  Both roles were maintained so flawlessly that it looked to be the work of magic.  And even when she went back to work, the housework didn’t falter an inch.  Not one fucking speck of dirt was to be found.  And keep in mind, my folks were raising 2 boys and a girl who was messier than the 2 boys put together.  I pig-penned all over my mother’s beautifully kept house- but you’d never know it to look at it.  But not only did she keep things so clean that you could easily eat out of the toilet bowl without worry, but she was on point when it came to holiday cards, birthday cards, thank you cards, all other social pleasantries, AND making sure that  we kids had our after-school time appropriately filled with sports, music lessons, scouts, and any other fly-by-night interests that we were currently embracing.  3 solid healthy meals a day, a spotless house even with 3 kids dead set on messing it up, every social grace in place, running 3 little arguing brats all around town to soccer, piano, dance and ice skating, and while working.  Again, I have no idea how she did it.

Kids have a tendency to be self-absorbed assholes.  It’s part of their job requirement.  Growing up, I never even noticed how perfect everything was.  But now that I’m an adult with my lone child and house that’s much smaller than my parents- I am slapped in the face by just how much my folks were able to accomplish in a day… and it’s making me wonder if my parents were unnatural superheroes, if the times have changed so much that my generation of parents are just much less organized/efficient, or if there are truly less hours in the day.  Or maybe I’m just a totally crappy parent.

I gave up on “social pleasantries” when Sully was 2.  Thank you cards, birthday cards, holiday cards, etc… I just stopped trying to keep up.  Hell- the  invitation to me and Brad’s wedding was sent out via email if that gives you some idea of just how far removed I am from my mother’s wonderful social graces.  My house is always clean- but I can’t really get on top of it.  I vacuum twice a week, do dishes every night,  scrub the bathrooms every weekend, everyone in my house does their own laundry, I try to enforce everyone picking up after themselves- but at the end of the day I want to lay on my floor and scream at the top of my lungs because there’s still clutter and dust and kid-stuff and Brad-stuff EVERYWHERE!!!!!   Running from work to Sully’s school to the grocery store to Sully’s karate to home for homework to making dinner to doing more work from home and trying to get to bed before 2am leads me to ulcers and sleepwalking.  How did my parents do it with 3 kids?!  And so effortlessly?!?!  It truly blows my mind.

Tonight I channeled my mother.  I borrowed a crazy high-tech rug cleaner from a neighbor and tackled our area rugs.  I scrubbed out the refrigerator, and am moving onto my office (which looks like a tornado hit it).  There’s such a wonderful calm that I feel when I visit my parents house- and I want some of that in my house.  I know that the majority of that calm comes from the fact that my parent’s house will forever be “home”… but it also comes from the fact that when I’m there, I’m not surrounded with chaos.  The beautiful organized calm that my parents house radiates does wonders for my OCD, and I can actually relax when I’m there.

Is it pathetic for a 34-year-old married mother to want to move back home and live with her parents?  It probably is.  Good thing I abandoned my shame years ago.

Thanks, Mom.

Openly embracing 2010 because 2009 was the biggest jerk EVER!

HAPPY NEW YEAR, my little kittens!!!!!

Historically, I’ve never really cared about the New Year, because all my years tend to run together and having a “starting over point” didn’t seem applicable to me.

But 2009 was a whole different situation.  2009 was just rude.  It was the equivalent of an abusive ex-boyfriend that wouldn’t leave me alone.  As much as I tried to say to myself “Whatever, 2009- I don’t care about you and I’m not going to let you affect me anymore.  Just leave me be to exist in peace, and let me quietly wait for something better”, the lower it sunk in it’s attacks to prove it’s place in my life.  The more I ignored it, the louder it screamed. Day after stupid fucking day.  But now it’s dead, and I don’t ever have to hear it’s name again.  I’m welcoming 2010 with open arms- and looking forward to it helping me repair the damage that 2009 did.  Day 1 of 2010 is in effect, and things are already looking brighter.  Thank you, dear sweet 2010.

We didn’t even try to get a babysitter last night to go out for new years (because we’ve been parents long enough to know that it’s a futile quest), so we had some family over and just had a fun little new years at home.  And Sully and I made these:

Our little 'non-gingerbread' houses

My little gumdrop snowman!!!

When I try to bake/cook anything with more than 4 steps in the recipe, things go disastrously wrong.  So we opted to use graham crackers for the housing structures instead of having me attempt to make perfectly formed gingerbread walls/roof for the house .  Sooooooo much easier and fool-proof!  They’re sloppy and silly and won’t win any awards- but it was a SUPER fun way to spend an evening.

Then I was met with a horrifying discovery this morning.  Since all of Sully’s regular pajama pants were in the process of being laundered, he threw on a pair of pajama pants he hasn’t worn in a couple months.  And this is now how they fit:

WTF!!!

Someone explain to me how my 11 year old little boy grew THIS much in 2 months??  Is that even possible?  His doctor told us to expect for him to shoot up in height in the next year… but this is crazy.  At 11, he’s only about an inch shorter than me (and I’m 5’4″).  He’s going to be 10 feet tall by the time he’s 16 if this keeps up, and I don’t know if the psychological hold I have on his behavior will hold up when he’s towering over me.  This makes me a little more afraid of his upcoming teen years (and Brad- being the stepdad- is downright terrified).

Off I go to start my New Year taking my 2 oldest cats to the vet.  Leo (the ancient crypt keeper) needs a shot, and Oscar (almost as ancient, but doesn’t look like he’s falling apart like Leo does) has gotten a cold and has been sneezing nonstop for 3 days.  As hilarious as it is to see a cat having sneezing fits, I don’t want my little buddy miserable.  And Sluggo is too in love with Oscar for anything to happen to him.

Proof of Sluggos love for Oscar (they sleep like this everyday)

And to entice my friends and family to cash in on the trips they’ve been planning to come out and visit us, THIS is what winter looks like where we live….

Our orange tree is producing more oranges that we could ever eat.  No snow (unless you want to build a snowman, then it’s a painless drive to the mountains).  No scraping ice, salted roads, or chained tires.  No crazy heating bills, and you don’t even need to bring a sweater.   Sound nice?  I’m  not complaining.  And times like this make understand why the cost of living is so damn high out here.

To all of you, have a super happy new year (and the best cure for a hangover is Pedialyte- I swear to god).

BIG LOVE TO YOU ALL!!!!!