Love is a Dog

How do we all cope with the passing of a loved one? In this case, a beloved pet. When my husband (then boyfriend) and I took Chubbs home, I was ecstatic with the little bundle sleeping in a ConAgra box in the backseat of the coupe. Yes, a coupe. Those were pre-Shorty days and we didn't worry about how we were going to get a car seat in and out of a car. I relished the first trip into a pet store shopping for the perfect bed, 2 dog bowls, a kennel, and the collar. Like any mother, I was nesting or denning, since this was a puppy (okay, it's not a word.) Amidst all the warm fuzzies however, I morbidly thought about how I was going to cope once this puppy was old and ready to check out. I wondered what was worse and what was easier for me to handle. Was it finding him somewhere and burying him under a tree in the backyard with a paw print cast on the mound like they always do in the movies? I found that picture to be maudlin. Or would it be taking him to the vet and helping him along in the process, ending his discomfort and pain? The latter was entirely strange and unnatural to me. Growing up in the Philippines, dogs ate our leftovers, there were no trips to the vet, and we certainly let life take its course. Euthanasia seemed too practical and indifferent. So, I decided I was just nuts and I was going to cross that bridge when I get there.

Fifteen and a half years later, I still didn't have the answer as I struggled with vet costs, doggie diapers more expensive than Shorty's, and the messy job of mopping floors clean of dog urine. Pretty soon, Chubbs hung out in the backyard. I think those last days helped his snuggle-hog of a brother Deuce, a 9 year-old Boston Terrier, detach from the pug's company. So did Shorty, but not me. Not yet.

When we picked him out from the litter of puppies, we kept losing him in a pack of ten pot-bellied puglets. He would crawl into the extra large kibble bag and eat to his heart's content. Years later, no matter how old and slow he was, he promptly and faithfully came to his bowl (a white one, so he could see it on the dark patio floor) for his senior-grade kibble.
He would do anything for that kibble. He sat, shook your hand, rolled over, and played dead (Pretend to shoot him with your forefinger and say 'Bang!', he'll wail and fall on his side and lay still.) All that for kibble, not even a treat, just plain old kibble. Silly dog.

Chubbs hated the leash. Years of pulling away made him walk sideways, even off-leash. We added 'Hey Sidewinder!' to his many nicknames. He also made it his life goal to catch that curled-up tail and yes, he did catch that tail. Once. Then, he made it his next life goal to catch it twice. Life goals are for humans aren't they? But then the pug thought he was human, taking up a spot on the bed and insisting (with seemingly pointless barking), to be on the same side of the door as you were. Let him out and he'll yelp to come inside with you. Leave him inside while you're out, and he'll whine to come outdoors with you. He also did the mother of all doggie don'ts. He ate a whole bar of Toblerone - box, foil and all. The only telltale sign we found was the little triangle piece at the end of the box. He lived through it and just passed something that very much resembled chocolate. Stubborn dog.

Chubbs was now completely blind, deaf, and very slow to walk as his spine was contorted to a drastic curve, raising his hip. He and I would "walk" the yard together and he would navigate by keeping his side against my leg. Where I went, he went. He sure knew how to communicate. Ever since a pup, he would bark at a faucet, any faucet, when his water bowl was empty. Smart dog.

When he stopped doing all of the above, the hubby and Shorty were ready to let him go, but I wasn't. Not the way they were thinking anyway. We had family talks and it still ended in a stale mate, even when I was outnumbered. So I told Chubbs, "Buddy, I'm ready, but you decide when you want to go because I sure as hell am not going to make that decision for you." So he did. He turned up his nose on his kibble for four days (that was shocking) and on the last day, he stopped drinking, settling down in spots in the yard that were not his favorite. I lifted him up to wash him and he was light as a feather. I took it as a sign he was checking out. I had a decision. We took him to the vet where we properly said our goodbyes, got a paw print cast (which I did not request, but ended up appreciating), and we took him home in a little cardboard box and buried him under a flowering tree in the backyard. I got both scenarios. I am content, but sad. How do we cope? With time. That's all.

The family was sad and asked how Shorty was taking it. Ask her and she'll tell you, "Time to get a new puppy!" She was however, overly emotional that week and would burst into tears because of a hangnail or because I separated her twin cherry popsicle. She has since claimed Deuce as her own. 'MY dog,' she'll tell me. One of my nieces cried when she heard about the sad news, meanwhile I am still crying at random points of the day (and as we speak.) The Boston Terrier has taken to looking and waiting at doors that lead outside. Once, I asked him lightly, "Deuce, you waiting for Chubbs?" He perked up and promptly ran towards the backyard staring out for a minute. I think we all miss him. Chubbs was a fixture in the family, having been around for fifteen years. He predated all the kids and family pets combined.

Later, Chubbs. You silly dog, stubborn dog, smart dog. Good dog.

In dog years

I thought my diapering days were over until my 15 year-old pug started peeing and pooping in the house at night. The old man, er dog, has been relegated to the backyard during the day and the laundry room at night. Thank God winters in Austin are mild.
Never had the house smelled like Pine Sol than ever before. The first day of mopping the floors and washing the pug was an act of love. My first baby needs me. As I mopped the floor, scrubbed the stuff off him, then off my bathtub, I swore the mother of all motherhood promises that if I had to, I will do this daily. Yes, I swore like a sailor too. By the third day, that sappy feeling wore off and the chore warranted a rant on Facebook. The outpouring of empathy and suggestions from friends was comforting. So, I broke down and bought doggie diapers. They worked so well, I bought in bulk the second time around. It's now a part of our bedtime routine. Shorty: potty, jammies, brush teeth. Chubbs: laundry room, baby gate, diapers. Neither one fights it.
The pug, whose name is Chubbs, has been given many endearments through the years: Puglet, Chublet, Chubby, Chubbster, Chubbywubby, Chubbyloopee, Chubbyroo, all coined by friends and family. Really, he didn't seem to mind. Shorty came up with the most recent one due to Chubb's new accessory. 'Huggie Puggy.' That has to be my favorite, so far; I'm sure it's not the pug's.
The now near-blind, half-deaf, greying pug in diapers walking into corners and standing there because he can't back up has been a usual sight in our household. And that's ok. It's not funny, just normal, and it's comforting to me to still have my pug around even if he sleeps all day. Well, he's always done that.
I know this blog is about motherhood, but after all, I was a pet-mom first. I think caring for Chubbs, although nowhere near taking care of my Shorty, has taught me about nurturing, caring, and patience -- and poop. All very important things in mothering. Especially the last two. There's also one more lesson I have learned and it's the least glamorous of all. Across species, we all start out and end in diapers. Or not, but that's just awkward and very, very messy.

Leaving Las Vegas (when all you want is to get there.)

An already-planned trip to Vegas with childhood girlfriends was looming, but I had to tell them that I had to sit this one out.
We were ecstatic about our recent move to Texas to be closer to family. We found a lovely home right away, but it hailed from the seventies and the kitchen screamed ABBA. We decided that it needed a nudge into the current decade. In this case however, the nudge meant gutting out the whole damn thing and knocking down a wall. No kitchen for two, almost three months, and...no Vegas trip. So here I was the weekend of said trip and my girlfriends' hootin' and hollerin' on the other end of the line made me resent the seventies just a little bit. Ironic, since that's when I was born. I fought the strong urge to have a bottle of wine with me, myself and I, and decided I will not sit at home. I will be out there. I will show up. I will socialize...my four-year- old and I.
So instead of looking so glum on a Friday, I heard about the chicken joint that had an unofficial holiday for bovine appreciation day. Free eats if you dress up like a cow. (Mooing doesn't get you anything but funny looks.) That's it! That's where Shorty and I were going to paint the town red, or black and white, actually. I grabbed two shirts, one white, one black. I cut up the black one into random kidney shapes and contemplated sewing them on to the white one, until I decided glue does wonders. An oval of pink fabric on the chest then, Shorty pulled out two small, pink pompoms.
"For nickels, Mom," she offered.
"You need two more. I think you mean udders," I said (now you know what she meant.)
Those were glued on just like everything else. More glue for small black fabric onto a pair of barettes for ears, and we were ready. No, I did not don a costume for free lunch. Since I received photo updates of the girls all dolled up without kids glued to their legs, the last thing I wanted to do was to feel and look like a cow. I've never felt so domesticated in all my life.
We hit the restaurant and when we walked in, Shorty got so many compliments (from other cows) on her costume that made this mama cow feel proud. She had fun. I had fun, not Vegas fun, but the promise of a shiny, new kitchen was well worth it. I think cocktail glasses, filled to the brim, should be the first to go on those countertops. Make mine a Margarita.

One of these things is not like the others

I’ve been coasting along the motherhood path content and, relieved mostly, that Shorty has yet to start bringing up big life-issues – until this past Wednesday.

They had an exercise in school called “If you can be whatever you want to be, what would it be?” The teacher wrote the kids’ answers on a poster-sized sheet and hung it up in the hallway. Answers ranged from the expected, “I want to be a princess,” to the daring, “I want to be a green dragon.” There were also some realistic ones “I want to be a mom with five kids and live in a big house in the desert,” and then some odd ones like “I want to be a fruit snack.”

We were so amused with the list that Shorty and I rehashed her classmates’ answers on our drive home. One of her little friends said she wanted to be a princess like Jasmine (from Disney’s Aladdin) and among a whole list of dragons and superheroes one boy said he wanted to be the prince who marries Jasmine (the same one.) So how did Shorty react? “Eeew. He wants to marry a little girl with white skin.” My face burned. You see, ours is a ‘blue’ family in a very ‘red’ state, so when we found a preschool not more than 15 minutes away from our house that was surprisingly racially diverse, we couldn’t believe our luck (never mind that it costs us an arm and a leg, weekly.) So imagine my surprise when my daughter made this comment. I calmly asked, “Why is that eeew?” “Because he needs to marry someone with the same color skin.” I was convinced someone put it in her head, and it sure as hell wasn’t me. “Who told you this?” I asked trying to sound like I was just curious, not seething. “Nobody, Mom. I made it up myself.”
Her little friend who wanted to be Jasmine happens to be Caucasian, which up until now, I didn’t think mattered to Shorty. It obviously didn’t matter to her little friend who, out of all the Disney princesses, wanted to be one of the dark-skinned ones.

I have friends from different cultures, countries, and races, some in interracial marriages and some in same-sex relationships. So, it was a promise, no, a pact between my husband and I that if we had a child he or she will experience and thrive in a culturally diverse environment. I want my child to value diversity, practice tolerance, make and form well-informed choices and opinions, and be slow to judge. The best I can do is to teach her to always look at both sides of the coin.

I continued, “Your daddy and I don’t have the same color skin.” “Yes you do,” she said. Fine. I guess we do, but technically we are an interracial couple; my husband is Hispanic and I’m Filipino. Let’s see…Aha! I thought of my sister who is married to a man of Finnish descent. “What about your Tita T and Uncle E?” She smiled. Eureka. The light bulb went on. “See?” I said, quite pleased with myself. “What’s important Sweetie, is that you marry someone you like to hang out with, someone who makes you laugh, someone who hugs you when you’re sad or scared, someone who makes soup for you when you’re sick, someone who makes you feel like you’re the prettiest girl in the world.” Shorty was wide-eyed in my rear view mirror. Her wheels were obviously spinning. “Ok,” she said, “I’ll marry you and Daddy.”

I’m starting to think sorting exercises is the culprit. Tsk, tsk, Big Bird.

Someone Moved My Cheese

I recently went back to work, and Shorty went to preschool for the first time. Big step. Needless to say it was quite an adjustment for all three of us, including my husband. Now we do the get up, get washed, get dressed, teeth brushed, hair combed then shuttle-the-kid-to-school-and-get-to-work-on-time bit.

On Shorty's first day of school both my husband and I dropped her off, like a rite of passage I guess. As expected, she went off and played with other kids right away and had to be called back so we can get a goodbye kiss. Shorty made it easy for me. No tears there, no tears here. I have such a cool little kid; I am the world's greatest mother.

By the second week however, the novelty had faded. She realized it wasn't a field trip. Shorty had resorted to bringing her bed buddy, a now not-so-white and black panda, to school with her. Upon drop-off, she would just stand there holding Happy Pandy.(I did not name said panda.)

Come third week, Shorty would not unclick her seat belt and had to be carried in. "Why do I have to go to school?" she asked. "So you can go to college and get a job like me," I answered cheerily. I wanted to add, 'and leave your child at daycare, so you can earn money, so you can pay for daycare and buy work clothes, both of which you wouldn't need if you weren't working,' but I didn't. She was, by then, full-on bawling and clung to me like a monkey to its hairy mother's chest, not that I'm hairy, especially in the chest.

One crazy morning, Shorty threw a tantrum the size of Texas because she didn't like her outfit. I finally got her and myself ready, threw our stuff in the car then went back in to corral the dogs into the laundry where they usually stay while we're out. I had to search for the Pug who wouldn't come when called because he is fourteen and deaf as a door knob. Then the Boston Terrier was nowhere to be found. Did he get left out in the hot sun? Did he fall in the pool? I was a ball of nerves. I hooted and hollered, searched in closets, under beds, in laundry baskets, and every corner of the backyard. I even checked the car. Surprise, surprise; there he was. He had slipped in while I loaded our stuff in the car and was now looking at me like I was nuts for leaving him in that laundry room all day long.

At school, Shorty refused to get out and said, "My teacher said when I'm big, big girl I don't have to come to this school. I'm big, big now, see?" she said stretching up to touch the car's ceiling. I told her some lie about her having to wait in the car for eight hours if she came to work with me. She hopped to, but cried all the way to her classroom saying, "I'm ready for college now." Well, I'm not. Mom and Dad need to get your 529 started which won't happen if I showed up late for work, then I'll get written up, then I'll get fired so I really need to leave in five minutes. As soon as I pried her off me outside the classroom door, she bolted back down the hall toward the exit. Try running after a toddler when you haven't worn heels in three years. Those shoes look great, but they don't corner well. Anyway, I left her crying while her teacher had her in a bear hug. Breaks my heart every time, but when I go to pick her up, she's having so much fun she doesn't want to leave.

Week 4. She's getting better. Each morning though, I still have to lie through my teeth, "School is so much fun," when all I really want to say is "Sorry Shorty, school's going to suck for a while," And she's barely started.

*The title is inspired by Dr. Spencer Johnson's book "Who Moved My Cheese?"

The seasonal vegetarian

I recently enforced, on my little family, meatless Fridays for 40 days this past Lent. Then, for 6 holy days leading up to Easter Sunday, we were vegetarians. Prior to the Lenten season, my husband decided to give up the occasional alcoholic beverage. He asked me what I was giving up. Before I could reply, he offered, "You should give up steamed white rice." I smirked. Was he nuts? You see, I grew up with the stuff. I'm wired to like it, it's practically part of my DNA. On occasion, my husband would wake up to me sitting in bed beside him, watching TV, chowing down a bowl of hot, white rice. I am to white rice as Peggy Bundy is to bonbons. "Facebook," I declared. Well, he's woken up to me, in bed staring at the bright screen of my laptop like a moth to a flame, checking out Facebook. That went out the window by the time Ash Wednesday came around.

So, meatless Fridays it was which he insisted, Shorty, who's 3, should observe it as well. I agreed. We take her to church, perhaps she should experience this too. We planned meatless options: salads, spaghetti marinara, grilled cheese sandwiches, tuna sandwiches, egg sandwiches, and rice in various shapes or forms. I don't know how vegetarians and vegans do it.

One Friday evening, Shorty was jonesing for a hotdog and I told her, "We can't eat meat." "Why not?" Not wanting to have to explain Lent, I said "Do it for Jesus." "Okaaay," she said with resignation. I was surprised at her willingness to participate. By Holy Week, Shorty seemed to look forward to having meat more than the scavenger hunt. To distract her, we made our own pizza which was a favorite activity of hers. When all the toppings were on and I was about to put it in the oven, "Wait," Shorty stopped me. "We forgot the pepperoni," she said with clear panic in her voice. "It's holy week," I said flatly. I tried to say it sweetly like a patient mother would, but I was having withdrawals myself. She hung her head, arms limp at her sides. "But mommy," she whined, "I love meat."

When Easter Sunday finally came, we went to Mimi's Cafe after church and had omelets with the most anticipated, most beloved bacon. Sigh. Oh for the love of all pigs crispy. Then, in sheer joy, arms in the air (and strip of bacon in hand,) Shorty exclaimed with a greasy grin, "Thank you, Easter time."

That's What Christmas is All About, Shorty.

I took out my old nativity set which consisted of the Virgin Mary, St. Joseph, the Baby Jesus, a donkey and a cow. I told Shorty we should make a little stable for them, which she thought was a great idea. She said so. My mother gave me a pack of popsicle sticks and so we glued and stacked until the whole lot was gone. We set up the scene with the new house of sticks, under our beautifully decorated (but very plastic) tree and sat there admiring our masterpiece.
Last year my daughter was too young to know the Christmas story, but this year I thought it should be easy. There's a mom, a dad and a baby. She'll love that. She already knew their names. Hmm. How to begin. I dove in head first.
"You know why we celebrate Christmas?" I started. See, I didn't want it to be primarily about gifts so I told her it was Jesus' birthday. Shorty smiled. She likes birthdays. Then, I asked "You know why we give presents? Because it's all about sharing."
I told her that Mary and Joseph got married. Then, an angel told Mary that she was going to have a baby and that she should name him Jesus. Shorty will find out later that they weren't married yet, when Mary got pregnant, but I'll leave that for Catholic school to explain. They're against pre-marital pregnancy; they can explain the Joseph part while they're at it. He wasn't really 'Daddy.'
"Then they left on a donkey because Mary was too pregnant to walk and went to Bethlehem." "Why?" Shorty asked her first question. In my head I answered 'For tax purposes,' but didn't want to be asked 'What's tax?' because I don't understand that either. Instead, I went with, "There was a mean king who wanted to steal babies." As soon as I said that, I knew instantly I had let St. Theresa's College (my old Catholic school for girls) down. Confusing Day of the Innocents with the Nativity Story should give me an overdue F on my report card. "Anyway," I continued, glossing over the humongous error in the story, "Baby Jesus was so special that three very smart kings went to see him and brought gold, frankincense and myrrh as birthday gifts." She asked me what those were. I told her coins for Baby Jesus' piggy bank and 2 kinds of perfume (weird combo but she didn't seem to be bothered by it.) I told her we celebrate Jesus' birthday because he was God's gift to us. "What's that?" "What's what?" "God," Shorty said flatly. I was appalled. We pray before meals, we pray at bedtime and go to church. She even dips her fingers in the holy font before she makes the sign of the cross but I never thought of what her impressions were of Him or Her. She never asked me until now.
How embarrassing that my daughter knows all about Santa Claus, and where he (supposedly) lives, and will jump through hoops for him. I heard my voice in my head "Santa's watching, better eat your peas," and she'll do it. I've been bribing my kid with the promise of a strange and very large man dressed in a terrible red suit to bring her presents.
Do I dare answer this question? How in the world did my mother answer mine? I know that the Catholic school I attended was run by liberal nuns who encouraged us to question, but prayer and the Holy Trinity was talked about and taught everyday; I don't think we ever stopped to really question anything. Who IS God? How do I explain something so abstract to a two year old when it's still a mystery to me?
I looked at her and decided that I'll tell her how I know God. "God is everything good. God is everywhere: the sky, the earth, the ocean, and," I said, "in here." I patted her chest where her heart is. I desperately wanted to add, "And God may not be a blue-eyed, white-bearded man either," but I bit my tongue.

Out of the Mouth of Babes

A few days ago, I was feeling quite fulfilled as a full-time mom. My two-year-old was singing her ABCs, counting 1 through 10, all while diaper-free (and pacifier-free, I might add, but that's for another post.) Sigh. 'My perfect child,' I thought.
Nearing lunch time (aka crabby time,) I fought the urge to take a shortcut. To hell with Easy Mac. I am Supermom, I am Wondermom. I taught my child the alphabet, to count, and I potty-trained her in a week, thank you very much. I will make her lunch from scratch.

So, there I was busying myself in the kitchen and Shorty was playing by herself in the living room. She would interrupt every now and then with a request so politely asked like "Apple juice, please," followed by an un-coached "Thank you." 'Oh I am so good at this,' I thought. I was so proud of myself for teaching my daughter to be a very courteous toddler, when I heard a crash followed by what sounded like, "Damn it!"
"What did you say?" I asked, non-threateningly. Just asking, really.
"I just playing with my blocks, Mom," she answered sweetly.
I let it go.
A few seconds later, another crash. Definitely followed by "Damn it, damn it, damn it." I was in denial. That doesn't sound like me, does it? I called her over with the intention of correcting the offending word while it was still fresh out of the horse's mouth. No answer. I called again. Nothing. The third time I called her name, I heard her shuffling to the kitchen saying "Okay, okay, I'm coming. Jesus!"
I was petrified. My two-year-old just said the Lord's name in vain and it was only noon. I left the mild blasphemy for another lesson, another day, but I bent down to her eye level and told her that 'Damn it,' was not a very nice thing to say.
She answered "Really Mommy? 'Bout shoot?"
I had to make a deal. Okay, I said.

In the days that followed, she seemed to use a wide range of expletives from 'oh my doodness' to 'oh my dosh,' and 'shoot,' but none of them offensive. Again, I felt a surge of parenting success until we were cruising along at the market and I steered that semi of a grocery cart (the one with the toy truck attached to the front end) into the toy aisle. Clear as a bell, Shorty exclaimed at the array of toys "Holy crap!" for all the world to hear, after which I caught myself saying under my breath, "Jesus!"

Crap, and I thought I was doing a good job.

Postscript: Shorty runs breathless from the office and tells me "I play Pacman on the pyooter, ghost eats pacman (she beeps like the computer in imitation of the sound when pacman gets devoured) then," she continues, "Daddy says 'Damn it!" slapping her forehead.

A-ha!