The Pokey Saga

Apparently my husband and I secrete some sort of pheromone that only stray dogs and unwanted kittens can smell. It tells them, "Come to our house! We will feed you and bathe you; and if we can't find your owners, we'll keep you until we find you a good home!" We've come into two pets this way so far: Sasha, a beautiful mixed breed with silky black hair, who now resides with my mother, and Mooshoo, a tabby kitten I saved from going to the animal shelter, whose new owner I found on Craigslist. Okay, so I'm not 100% positive that Mooshoo went to a nice home, but the girl seemed nice, and I was tired of the cat peeing all over Ender's belongings.

I noticed this dog sniffing around my neighbor's yard on Friday afternoon. It had a collar on, so I didn't think much of it. It seems like many of the people in this neighborhood feel like they have the right to let their dogs roam around all willy nilly, pooping wherever they please.

I saw the dog again later on sniffing around another neighbor's house. The forcasted storm for that evening was blowing in, so I called it over. She (I quickly figured out it was a girl dog) had a current rabies vaccination and animal licence, but, unfortunately, the vet's office and animal control were both closed for the evening. She was really dirty so I decided it was time to give her a bath. Of course, my husband resisted, but the thought of this poor dog having to stay outside all night while it stormed reduced me to tears, so before long I was scrubbing her down with blueberry scented doggy shampoo.

Thankfully, the vet's office had Saturday hours, so I called and got the owner's name and number. I had to leave a message for them, and while I was waiting for their call I decided to take a shower. Of course, I hadn't been in the shower for five minutes before they called. My husband said the lady was crying, she was so happy. They only lived a couple of streets over, so they came and got her right away - I was in the shower for the entire transaction. Apparently, the dog's name is "Pokey" - interesting. But I shouldn't talk, because my dogs are named after cartoon characters as well, and I named my son after a sci fi novel.

I'm glad everything worked out and that Pokey is back where she belongs....even though my husband ended up getting all the glory.

And so it begins...or it will, anyway...

Update: The potty I bought is made by Safety 1st and is part of the Nature Next line, made of bio-plastic and is a potty, trainer seat, and step stool all in one! Woo hoo! There are a few other items in the Nature Next line; a couple of different booster seats, baby bath tub, and safety gate.

I bought a potty last week. I picked out the one at Walmart made with recycled plastic in a no landfill factory, so I feel pretty good about the purchase. As an added bonus, the beige recycled plastic goes well with my color scheme.

So far we've just been talking a lot about bodily functions, which Ender really gets a kick out of. His new favorite word to say, besides "poop," is "butt." We haven't had anything actually end up in the potty yet, but it's always a fun time when he sits on it. He strains and strains and usually ends up farting. It's a step in the right direction, and he thinks it's hillarious.

I don't think he's really ready for full-on potty training. He couldn't care less if his diaper is dirty. In fact, it almost seems like he enjoys having poop in there. Gross.

I'm really not looking forward to all this...

i am my mother's daughter

Last night as Ender was pulling the lamp off the end table for the third time, causing it to be forever crooked, I exclaimed, "I can't have anything!!" This was the third lamp to meet its demise at the hands of my child. As the words slipped past my lips, I thought to myself, How many times have I heard my own mother exclaim those exact same words?

I don't think anybody really appreciates the things they spend their hard-earned money on until they have kids to ruin it. As I looked at this third victim lamp, restored to its place on the end table pointing towards the corner of the room instead up towards the ceiling as it had before it hit the floor, my mother's possessions passed through my mind; the glass-topped coffee table I stood on and broke, the La-Z-Boy recliner I actually managed to break in half, the lamp shade I spattered with purple marker. When I was on the giving end of the destruction, watching my mother stomp away screeching, "I can't have anything!" I would pout, thinking, "Sheesh...it's just crappy, cheap stuff." But it was her crappy, cheap stuff. I get that now.

So Mom, on this Mother's Day weekend please accept my sincere appology. At least find solace in the fact that Karma has come to get me, and now I can't have anything either.

Paul Rudd and Fake Belly Buttons

I had a dream last night that I was dating Paul Rudd, and we were one of those artsy fartsy couples who would be likely have a public access cable show. He was wearing a macrame or crocheted sweater that looked like it would better serve as a doily and said things like, "I'm so inspired by you. I just want to create because you inspire me so." I have a pretty big crush on Paul Rudd, but after last night, I think he may be ruined for me.

I was an interior designer. I was busy with the final touches for a party my BFF (who was an event planner in the dream) was throwing. There were water features, gauzy curtains, and huge couches with silky jewel tone pillows. All-in-all, a pretty sexy party pad, if I don't say so myself.

BFF was wearing an incredibly revealing gown that I'll have to tell her about later, and she looked like she had gotten a tummy tuck. And I don't mean just that her stomach was flatter than in real life, but that she had one of those fake belly buttons people are left with after such a procedure.

I love my dreams. Most people tell me that they never remember theirs, but I remember probably five dreams a week. This one wins the award for the most interesting dream I've had in a while.

Paul Rudd, you're welcome to redeem yourself tonight.

Advancement

This afternoon, while watching one of our dogs relieve himself in the front yard, my adorable little boy looked up at me and said, "he poop." My heart melted. I replied, my voice raised in excitement and pride, "Yes! He's pooping!"

I'm sure other parents of preemies will identify with the frustration I feel when I read the magazine articles stating, "By now your 2-year-old can recite the prologue to The Canterbury Tales...." No, my 2-year-old can't do that. I know you're not supposed to compare your offspring to others, and especially not if yours was premature (6 weeks premature in our case), but I can't help but be annoyed. Granted, Ender seems to be ahead of the time lime as far as motor skills and physical abilities go; and I know he understands most of everything I say, even though he seems to conveniently forget what "don't touch that!" means multiple times a day.

I guess what I'm saying is, it is such a big deal to me that he's finally turning words into phrases, even if it's only, "he poop."

Beach Trip

I am not at all surprised that I have managed to not post a thing since I started this blog. The thing about working from home is that when I'm in front of the computer, I feel like I MUST be working. Otherwise I start feeling all guilty...like right now, the minutes are ticking away and I know I could have gotten at least one or two notes done in the time it has taken me to type this paragraph! Oh well....the documentation of others' medical misfortunes can wait. I have a post to type.

We went to the beach this weekend! My mom-in-law has a condo at Topsail Island, NC, so we went there with a couple of friends. Every time we go to the beach is like the first time for Ender, so we enjoyed watching him discover the "beat" again. The weather was okay, a little too windy, but passable. Ender loved digging in the sand and splashing in the water, although he did a couple of belly flops and got a face full of seawater a couple of times. When we got home, he opened up his sand box, pointed to the sand, and kept saying, "beat! beat!" He hasn't really gotten the "ch" sound yet, or the "sh" sound when it's on the beginnings of words. For example, instead of saying "shoes," he says "ish."

Okay, crushing guilt setting in...must get back to work!