It's a Dog's Life

Scott and his daughter and Charlie come calling at about 11 o'clock.

You can imagine the jangled nerve endings...both in Scott's car (including Charlie's) and in my house.

We find ourselves all in the kitchen at once. My kitchen which is the size of most people's bathrooms.


Everyone says "Hello," and I suggest we give the little tail wagger a little more room to wag by moving into the diningroom.


And here is where the beauty of the moment begins.
We are all on the floor, in a sort of circle, including Scott, who is keeping Charlie contained to the extent that he can be.
My kids are immediately in love with "Char-Char" and my daughter is regaling us with all that she has learned from her The Language of Dogs book, which is guaranteed to make her a dog whisperer.
Charlie is a real sport, licking and snuggling up to each child and giving each of us a way to talk to each other:
My daughter notices his scratching; Scott's daughter explains Charlie's habits.
My son asks what breed Charlie is. Scott answers and asks what kind of dog they have at Lars' house.
I ask Scott's daughter how her cheer competition went, and she tells me it was great, and then Scott has a video of her magnificent tumbling on his phone, which my daughter watches, and ingnites a high pitched conversation that covers cheerleading, nail polish, video games and Justin Bieber before they scramble up the stairs to my daughters room where they endeavor to find more things in common. (like the fact that they are both unbelievable slobs).


That leaves my son to monopolize Charlie without competition and to sit a little longer talking to Scott. Mission accomplished.

Things could not be going better. Scott is on the floor, eye-level with my son and they are having a real, genuine converstation with each other. A conversation that thankfully, bears no resemblance whatsoever to J.'s typical conversations with my son, which focused on three topics ad nauseum:

1) His enduring if not completely smothering love and adoration for me (Bo-ring!)

2) Advice that a boy his age really should not hit his sister (No sh**, Sherlock, and guess what else? The Beatles broke up!)

and 3) Some bizarre esoteric piece of trivia that we are all supposed to be very impressed that he knows, especially my son, who is enormously hard to impress. (The world's largest kazoo ensemble probably wasn't even interesting to they guys playing the kazoos.)

It is entirely natural. A beautiful thing.

And I am racked with guilt.

I spent more than three years committed to a relationship with J., and tortured my children with it for more than half of that time. J., when all the warts at last came out, ultimately turned out to be a fraud, and a taker and an obsessive, controlling nut who constantly decieved me and took advantage of my feelings for him under the auspices of "partnership." And my children knew it almost from the start, but trusted me and wanted my happiness. And I dismissed their quiet complaints that J. blew his nose at the table and skeeved them out, or coughed like a TB patient, or smelled like he'd been smoking, or they just didn't like him. I let it happen.

And now, I am replaying all the warning signs and troubling red flags that should have been heeded and still come back to haunt me, and trying hard to find away to forgive myself; to repent for the kids.

I look at Scott, sharing a belly laugh on the floor with my son because Charlie has cracked the universal male joke and has unleashed a toxic, noxious fart, and my brow begins to unfurrow, my muscles relax.

I may not completely forgive myself, for what I must have put the children through, or for being a stupid, blinded by love fool to have let J. consume my life and much of what comprises it, but I may be able to make amends. To the kids and to myself.

I am at the starting gates of a stretch of life so warm and rich with rewards, so fun and full of laughter, so effortless and easy to live that it makes memories of whatever came before it immaterial and perfunctory. A win for us all...Scott's, mine and ours.

A Boy and His Dog

So my daughter is ready to roll out the red carpet for Scott and his daughter. She may even run down it to greet them in her ball gown.

My son can barely quicken his pulse. Or so it seems. I am sure there is more to it than that.

Loyalty concerns – “I’m not going to like anyone but Dad. I don’t care if he’s Tim Tebow. You can’t make me.”

Anxiety – “What if Scott doesn’t like me? I am not good at math.”

Jealousy – “We’ve kind of liked monopolizing Mom’s attention for the past few months. She can drop everything and drive over to Dad’s to hand deliver my Gameboy to me in her pajamas on a Saturday night if she’s not always off on mini-vacations.”

Disinterest – "Ho hum. Here we go again. And tell me why we have to do this? Must I participate? Yawn."

Meanwhile my girl is puttin’ on the Ritz. I wonder what Scott’s girl is doing?

I call him. I have a suggestion. Remembering when I was first at his house, I suggest that it might be a really great idea to bring one of the dogs. Something to distract us all from the moment and focus all our attentions on something fun. What better than a dog?

“Great idea!! Sure I can. Which one?”

I am not a dog person any more than I am a wine person. I could no more answer this question than I could “Would the Steak Au Poivre be better paired with the 2002 August Briggs Petite Sirah or the 2003 Norman Vineyards The Monster Zin?” Clueless. Eany Meany Miney Moe. All the same to me. You pick.

I say as much.

“Ernie would be the easiest. He won’t run away or jump around. But he sheds a lot. A LOT, " declares Scott, thinking out loud.

I picture my vacuum going up in flames.

“Not Snoop?” I ask. I have seen pictures of him sitting idle while the girls dress him in bathing suits and clothes and sunglasses and hats. Cool as a cucumber. My kind of disposition. Barely breathing.

“No. Snoopy’s bad. The minute you open the door he’ll be down the street chewing on the mailman.”

Good to know.

I guess that leaves Charlie. Neurotic and scratchy. But very cute and loves to be cuddled in your arms like a baby. And small enough to sit on our laps. And to stuff into the breadbox if he’s that bad.

So we agreed that the next morning, Charlie and his bowl and leash would come calling with Scott and his daughter.

Good grief, Charlie Brown.

Mom and Scott, Sittin' in a Tree

So things are great with me and Scott, but beginning to feel a little lopsided.

I’ve spent some time at Scott’s house and with his daughters and pets- but he’s only been to my house when my children are incarcerated with Lars, so he’s not met them.

Time to change that.

So the next weekend I have the kids, we planned to make an introduction. And a lasagna.

What they know so far is limited. They’ve seen a picture. They know we went to high school together. I start to fill the kids in on some details.

Scott’s children – their names, ages and interests.
The situation between Scott and his children’s mother – so they can get a sense of how their lives compare with theirs.
The pets – Not only Charlie, Snoopy and Buddy (who I still call Ernie, and so does everyone else now) but also Snickers the Cat and Thumper the Bunny. Scott sends texts from his phone with pictures.
What Scott’s house is like – where it is and what I know about the town and what there is for them to do there.
What Scott does for a living, what he likes to do for fun, what do we talk about, how much do I like him, does he have any cool video games or systems?

My son is more interested in what Scott can offer him than Scott in general. Hadn’t cared much for J. and doesn’t have a lot of faith that I have picked a winner this time. Thank you for the confidence. I am ready for him to suggest a vetting committee.

My daughter is intrigued.

It is the Friday night before the Saturday that Scott and his youngest daughter are supposed to come. My daughter and I are enjoying a typical mother-daughter ritual. We are playing spa.

She has collected all my discarded makeup and some of her own, a dozen lotions and potions and polishes and hair notions and is giving me the works. Nails, up-do and makeup for a Big Event.

“So Mom…what kind of makeup do you want?” Long pause. “Wedding???????”

“Very funny,” I say. “Cut it out or no tip!”

She giggles, and then while I am a captive audience with my feet in a tub of perfumed water and a mud mask on my face and my hands being lotioned, she says, “ So, tell me, Mom. Did you and Scott have your first kiss yet?”

I smile - or try to with the paralyzing mud mask piled on an inch thick - and tell her, “Yes, sweetie, we have the first kiss out of the way.”

“Soooooooooo….who kissed who??????” she asks very brightly. So cute.

“Oh I am not really sure I remember, sweetie.” Which of course loosley translated means “Mommy had had a little chardonnay, sweetheart, and is still a little hazy about what exactly was happening when one of us planted one on the other. And please stop asking questions like this.”

“MOM!!!!!” she yells, pulling the eye thingies off of my eyes so I have to look at her while she scolds me. “How can you forget that? It’s a very important detail! How do you know who likes who more???!!!”

She is totally disappointed in my girly finesse. I am a cow in a china shop. How could I have botched this? She wants all the gossip and I have forgotten the details!

“Well, Lady Jane, if you must know, it doesn’t matter nearly as much to me as knowing that I like him enough to kiss him in the first place, which is a great place to start. Only kiss people you really like. Otherwise it's yucky."

“And sooooo..... do you think he likes you back?”

“Yes, sweetie, I am pretty sure he does.” I know this because he pushed his meatball across the plate to me with his nose the last time we were out to dinner.

"Well then we need to find some makeup for you for tomorrow! It's a very important day!" And she sets about very earnestly selecting all my beautifying treatments. As far as she's concerned, I'm going to need to be fabulous to get that second kiss.

Where's Waldo?

I am the picture of self-consciousness as we process to communion. Having a little conversation with myself. Hopefully only in my head, though I can’t be sure.

“Do not grimace at the children when they torture each other and do not give anyone a “cease and desist” pinch that makes them drop to their knees on the marble floor.”

“Maintain perfect posture. Chest out, shoulders back, head held high. I learned this in charm school. Or was it Brownie Camp?”

“Smile warmly at the usher like I am a nice person, even though I think he is an idiot and have since high school. And his sister too. A matched set.”

“Keep eyes affixed in a Valium gaze that is entirely out of focus, so no one can be sure where I am looking or if I see them, even if Casey sees me first and begins wildly gesticulating to get my attention as I proceed reverently with folded hands to the altar.
It is the grown up practical version of sticking my head in the sand. If I can’t see you it is sure as shit that you can’t see me. Nope. No you can’t.”

My children are ahead of me in The Line that we Catholics are so fond of. Something I do every week to ensure folded hands, few departures from the course, and minimal pushing and shoving along the way to Our Lord’s Table. (This dinner table should differ from any other?)

We are through one stanza of the hymn when my daughter abruptly whips around and almost whispers, but not quite “There he is!” and makes a gesture meant only for me to see – but we all know how that goes.

I try to ignore her and smile politely but she is walking backwards, insisting that I look up and confirm Casey’s identity.

I gesture that she should turn around at once (hairy eyeball and gritted teeth included).

I hear a chortle from beside me and look up.

Yes, I did.

And in a split second, am in a flop sweat.

There beside me, having observed the whole interaction, was a man who could for darn sure be mistaken for Casey.

But, thank the saints and apostles, is not.

I am so completely relieved, that I laugh in the poor guy’s face.

I am not at all clear – or even concerned for that matter – about what he thinks may have just happened, but he says, “Hello,” and so do I, and we return to our reverent procession, which is a great excuse not to over-explain my daughter’s having made a spectacle of us both.

Another bullet dodged, real or imagined. Amen.

Smelly Cat, Smeeeellllly Cat!

I am not about to “look over there.”

I am seriously considering whether it is too big a risk to yank my daughter’s rabbit fur earflap hat off of her little head and jam it on my own and exit the building incognito.

Probably. I am not known for blending in to begin with. I may as well just send up a flare.

Without looking up at anyone and while pretending to be completely consumed with my daughter instead of the fact that I am pitting out, I whisper back into her ear. “Where exactly? On the other side of the church? In front of us or behind us, or OH GOD, next to us???”

She tells me that she thinks he is on the far side of the church. Across the aisle somewhere imprecise.

I whisper again. “Under the window of St. Anthony of Padua or closer to the one of St. Rita, honey?

“Really, Mom?” she says with a sarcastic shift in the eyebrows that I can tell is there, even with the furry forehead flap reaching down to her eyelids.

I toy with the idea of asking her to describe what he is wearing so I can pick him out more efficiently. My eyesight is not what it used to be; it would take me a few minutes to focus sufficiently enough to distinguish Casey from a kangaroo. He’ll surely catch me staring. Not a good plan.

I decide I will not look around to ascertain the enemy’s position and will instead, for the moment, will myself to be invisible.

What if he sees me first? I am suddenly completely self-conscious and adjusting all of my garments to make sure nothing is inadvertently on the loose.

What, pray tell, is my hair doing right about now?
Do my children look like they were raised by wolves?
Did the harangue that was the journey from house to car to church leave me looking more frowzy than fabulous?
Do I look fat in these pants?
Why on Earth do I care?

And here is where I tune out Father’s introduction of the pimply-faced seminarian who is here to chat up the priesthood and encourage us to encourage our boys to enter the seminary. I want to dwell on a little insight into the female psyche for a moment.

Whether they are good, bad, ugly, or of no consequence, we want to be considered attractive and desirable by all male beings. On all levels. Pretty much everyone. Even those guys who still live with their mothers, or who wear socks with their sandals, or who are drunken meanies, or who have been incarcerated on and off since the Ford Administration, or whose breath could tarnish precious metals.

And so while I am loathe to have to speak to Casey, (for reasons that transcend his atrocious breath) and would feign a seizure to avoid any kind of interaction with him, and don’t want to Friend him on Facebook, and certainly don’t want to date him, if he happens to get a glimpse of me before I run screaming from the building, I don’t want him thinking “Ick! I am glad that didn’t pan out!”

I want him thinking I am the cat’s pajamas.

And I want him thinking "Lucky cat."

Sitting in His Own Pew?

Church – The children who bound out of bed at dawn’s early light somehow need hibernation-quality sleep on Sunday.

It is a feat of superhuman patience and motivational speaking to get my two tweens 1) vertical, 2) appropriately clothed, 3) reasonably groomed, 4) adequately fed, 5) seated in the car, 6) protesting at a minimum.

I am sure it is a familiar scene across the globe. No twelve year old turns a cartwheel on the way into church.

But we are late. Try to conceal your shock.

It’s not really the kids’ fault. I am culpable in some part. I was not exactly bounding out of bed at the crack of dawn either. I was only lured out from beneath the covers by the undeniable scent of the coffee I set to perk automatically at 8.

And as I sipped my jet-fuel strength cup of liquid sanity I so enjoyed the stillness and quiet and solitude of the morning that I hesitated to disturb the peace by waking the kids. And only did so at the last minute, sending them each into a separate and distinct tizzy of their own invention.

Hair problems.
Sock issues.
Insufficient bathroom space.
Outfit changes.
Pleas for clemency.

And I cut as many corners as I could to save a minute here and there to get out of the house on time.

Jewelry in the pockets to be affixed at the red lights.
Wore the hair wavy instead of flat ironing it to Morticia Addams straightness.
Opted for the no-iron outfit, slip on shoes and no hose.
Minimal makeup – just enough to qualify as a human female of adequate will to live.

But we were still late.

We arrive after Father has taken his seat on the altar. My children are still bickering as we take our seats.

All.
The way.
Up front.

And once we are seated and our collective blood pressure has returned to normal, my daughter tugs on my sleeve to get my attention.

I am sure it is to point out something heinous and unforgivable that her brother has done.

If only.

I lean down to encourage her to whisper in my ear rather than make a general pronouncement about God Only Knows What.

She cups her hands around my ear and whispers, “Mom, look over there. I think Casey is here.”

Jesus, Mary and sweet Joseph.

For Auld Lang Syne, My Dear

New Years Eve is a tricky holiday.

I remember really looking forward to it in college. A new outfit, a big party, breakfast at a local diner in the wee hours. Then sleeping in on New Years Day and waking up hoarse, parched and a little fuzzy on the details.

My opinion, not surprisingly, has ebbed and flowed over the years.

The big party scene faded from prominence when all of my friends began pairing off with serious partners and preferring more quiet, intimate gatherings to celebrate the holiday. And then I paired off with Lars and did the same. More so with his friends than mine.

And then the holiday becomes a holiday that you play by ear. If you are invited somewhere, great. If not, no big deal. And when kids come along, it feels better to be home while the world goes nuts one time zone at a time than to leave them with a babysitter. Maybe you’ll stay up to watch the ball drop. Maybe you won’t. And maybe you’ll stomp off to bed at 11:58 when your husband and his friend return from an NFL Playoff game 4 hours after the final buzzer, completely shit-faced, and knock over the Christmas tree trying to plug in the lights that simply must be lit at that hour.

OK – I stayed up on December 31, 1999 just to make sure the Earth didn’t go crashing into the sun. Who didn’t?

And I stayed up as we tiptoed to the finish line of 2009 to let my tweens bang pots and pans so they could trot off to school 2 days later and say that they had. And had hats and blowers and hors d’oeuvres, and Mommy’s boyfriend was asleep on the couch and didn’t really care for all the pot and pan clanging at the appointed hour. Party pooper. That more or less set the stage for his 2010 didn’t it?

And so even though it is, in my estimation, by no means a special holiday, when you have someone special in your life, and that life seems ripe with potential, the idea of New Years seems like a big deal.

But Scott’s plans to whisk me away to the beach for a midnight fireworks show and a long walk on the boardwalk holding hands was not meant to be.

He’d have dinner with family and take his girls to the fireworks, and I would be at home with my kids, listening to Dick Clark slur his words, and watching Ke$ha aspire “to not be a douchebag” as her nationally televised New Years Resolution, and eating far too many crab puffs and baby quiches.

And while all of this would be fun and memorable, it will somehow seem incomplete. Scott will be watching fireworks light up a sky that I don’t see. And me and my kids will jump around and make noise and kiss at midnight.

But one kiss will be left over, unbestowed.