Pink and Purple

Psychic Ann Renyolds warned me that my daughter had a split personality. 

This piece of information cost me $10.00 at Symphony Sunday nearly three years ago, and this past Wednesday, I learned that I got my money’s worth.  I learned in those 10 minutes (priced at $1.00 each) that my husband had been near death three times, he needed the ocean to calm his mind and spirit, and his heart had suffered distress in the last few months.  I, on the other hand, was in the midst of great legal matters — as she saw mounds of paperwork and contracts in her visions — and I liked the colors pink and purple.   She told me that I had two children (why, yes I do…), and one would be a great challenge as she had a dual personality. 

In what way? I asked.  In the “she’s-going-to-need-psychiatric-help” way, or, in the “she’s-not-who-you-think-she-is” way?  The psychic looked at me with great seriousness, despite the sign next to her that read :”FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY”.  “In one second, you’ll think you have her figured out.  In the next, you’ll hardly recognize her.”

At the time this visionary peered into my past to forecast my future, my youngest daughter, Maryn was a mere three months old.  However, I didn’t have to ask which child the psychic was speaking of.  I knew with a mother’s intuition that the more complex child — even at two and a half years of age — was Ava. 

For some time after that summer day festival on the riverbank, I wondered what she meant and when I’d begin to see this role reversal of whatever type it might be.  Now, in this very last week of October 2008, I have seen the alter ego that Ms. Reynolds predicted.  The odd thing was that I didn’t see it for myself — but I heard about it from everyone else.

On the morning of school pictures, Ava sobbed her way through the line and climbed onto the wooden platform to grimmace before the camera.  She always cries in formal portraits, which is why we do not have any.  I have hundreds of snapshots in photo albums and boxes, but none of us smiling in unison the way other families’ Christmas cards depict.   No, her proofs were returned a few weeks later with a yellow Post-it attached:  Would you like a make-up session? 

No, I don’t believe so.  The same thing will happen all over again, and besides, this photo is real.  This is the capturing of a time in her life when she was experiencing tremendous growing pains:  A fear of strangers, a break in routine, a pressure to smile beautifully, and an audience of onlookers insisting that she “SMILE, AVA!”.  The argyle sweater (in hues of pink and purple), covered a crisp, white oxford that buttoned at the collar and the cuffs,  and her eyes were red and swollen, completed by puffy cheeks that were streaked with shiny streams of tears.   Her eyes were the most brilliant blue I had ever seen thanks to salty tears; resembling Halls’ menthol cough drops.  Her first official school photograph — her kindergarten portrait — and she looked like someone had beaten her.   

Two weeks later, I was sitting in the school’s reception area (otherwise known as the principal’s office, but I was awaiting students to tutor in phonics), and I noticed an advertisement for 2009 yearbook sales.  I agreed to buy one, when the secretary asked me again if I was absolutely sure that I didn’t want to schedule a make-up photo session.  No, I said, one ordeal is enough.  Just then, the psychic’s prediction became a reality.

“I have a good shot of her, though, at the school assembly last week,” the secretary offered.  “At least there will be one of her smiling.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“Oh, yeah, she was the one who was chosen to present the teacher’s award to the outgoing principal.  She got up in front of the entire school — all those kids — and she walked to the front of the cafeteria and gave Mrs. Davis her award.  She smiled, turned around, and sat back down.”

I was stunned.

“You’re kidding?!” I exclaimed.  “My Ava?”

My Ava apparently does absolutely fine when her meddling mother is nowhere to be found.  She doesn’t cry in class, she doesn’t huddle in a corner, and she doesn’t sit in silence at lunchtime.  No, that’s the little girl who exists when her mother is watching or simply lingers too long in the building.  

The Ava I don’t know very well is one of six children in her class reading on her own.   The Ava I am not familiar with is one of the most popular girls in her class, who is treated very well by another little boy who always finds a chair for her to sit in.  The Ava I’ve never met is one of the first ones to jump up from eating lunch to dance off the calories when the teachers turn on the radio. 

Ava who?  Surely not Ava Reed.

Do I know her? Well, I thought I did.  I know the shy, cautious, observant, introvert who prefers to be left alone when in crowds of any size.  I know the little girl who buries her head in the backs of my thighs when I encourage her to speak to people in the grocery store.  I know the petite pixie who whose favorite books include the pitiful, “Mamas Always Come Home”.    I don’t think I’ve met this new girl in class whom everyone is talking about.

As a mother, it makes me wonder:  Why do our children feel they have to be different around us? Maybe the real question is, “Why does mine feel this way?”.   What is it about our relationship that makes her feel that she has to be one person in my presence, but breaks free of that role when I’m gone?  Is she afraid of not meeting expectations?  Or, she is simply being who she thinks I want her to be?  Is she trying to please me with an act of extreme loyalty?

At first, I felt hurt that I didn’t know these types of breakthroughs were occuring.  I wondered why I didn’t know that she was emerging from her protective shell, and I wondered why Ava didn’t tell me about these bigger days at school. I worried that this was just the beginning of mother-daughter secrets, and if she felt like she could no longer tell me things.  I wondered if my overbearing, strict and stern parenting had held her back in some way. Most of all, I feared that our relationship was changing, and the past five years were coming to an end.  Aren’t I pleased, though?  Oh, yes.  I am extremely proud of her.  I just wish I could have seen her enjoying her new, little life.

Perhaps she isn’t so different from her “homely” self after all.  Perhaps not telling me about her days filled with winning dance contests, leading lines to and from the library, moving from one on one tutoring to an active reading group, and being the school’s representative is a sign that her private self still very much exists.   While I didn’t expect to be the person that she would hide from, I did expect her to bloom where she was planted, as they say.  

From what I have been told, her future is a bright one.  I just hope I get to see some of it for myself.

No Substitutions

As much as I try to write about my youngest daughter, Maryn, my blog keeps coming back to Ava. The one person who gives me something to worry about, hence write about, has left me turned inside-out again today.

 

How I hate the second Wednesday of each month. This is the day that her kindergarten teacher has to be out of the classroom to attend training of some kind. This is the day that some poor soul will walk into a classroom, hoping for an easy day with 17 five year olds; a day of fun things in lieu of regular lesson plans. No, no, that can’t happen, because my Ava is brokenhearted that she has been “abandoned” by her favorite teacher (and new mother figure from 8:15 a.m. – 2:55 p.m., Monday – Friday).

 

We walked to her classroom, full of hope and promise of a good day filled with letters, numbers, shapes, and colors, only to be met by a wonderful, older lady who was as tiny as a kindergartener. She was polite, soft-spoken, and as gentle as a doting grandmother. I felt sorry for her, even more so than for Ava (or myself at that moment), because I knew this woman was in for a trying day. Ava caught one glimpse of her teacher’s empty desk (or empty nest), and she whirled around with fear, bolting for the door. I caught her mid-stride and tried to calm her down, but the wailing had begun.

 

Poor Mrs. Substitute looked at me with a bewildered look on her face, as I tried to reassure her that this would pass (my fib for the day). I explained that she shouldn’t take it personally, that Ava is easily disappointed and easily hurt; a sensitive child who is very loyal and attached to her regular teacher, and fearful when she isn’t where she’s “supposed” to be. Mrs. Substitute sensed that Ava wasn’t throwing a tantrum; she was merely grieving for someone who made her feel loved and safe. She hugged and soothed, patted and petted, and reassured her that she was a nice lady who would take good care of her. She then motioned for me to make a run for it, which I did, only to feel terribly guilty for letting my daughter down for the second time in fifteen minutes.

 

This is more than crying because things didn’t go Ava’s way. This is my little perfectionist’s set of expectations that end up breaking her own heart. This is my miniature “Type A” personality’s way of coping with separation anxiety — a sadness of learning that the people we love, trust, admire, respect, and rely on, do indeed leave us from time to time…without warning.

 

A child who grieves for its mother — how can we not be affected by the loss of security? To many, a child’s resistence and inability to accept unfamiliar situations is tagged as “abnormal” or “irrational”. It’s usually followed with a question of, “Have you talked with your school’s guidance counselor?”.

 

No, have you?

 

What good is another stranger telling her not to fear new situations? What good is a therapist hurling questions at her, when she’s too upset to speak as it is? What good will it do to make a child (who is already keenly aware of what threatens her) feel like she’s bad for feeling sad? Her feelings aren’t appropriate, so she needs professional help to make life easier on someone else?

 

While this conversation didn’t occur today (to my knowledge, but I haven’t picked her up from school yet), it does happen, and it has happened, as blogs written by other mothers reveal.

 

Am I making excuses for her? No, after all, I’m the one who said to the school secretary, “Please don’t call me…she’ll only learn that she can come home if she doesn’t feel like giving someone or something a chance.”

 

The cliche, “this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you”, is true, but it falls on immature ears when we try to explain its significance to our children. Like vaccines, we have to hurt them momentarily to keep them from realizing a lifetime of pain, or worse, a fatal condition. They have to learn through discomfort — adversity that is meant to teach, not scar — yet they don’t understand this any better than they understand our decisions that are in direct conflict with what we’ve told them to do.

 

I felt awful for running for the door, which is what Ava wanted to do, yet I was the one who got away with it. It makes me wonder: What is it that we really teach our children? You can’t do this, but I can? Do as I say, and not as I do?

 

There is no substitute for a good example. I often wonder what our actions reveal about ourselves, and if our good intentions are really the worst problem.

 

 

 

 

There’s Something About Maryn

For several entries now, readers might have gotten the impression that I was the mother of only one child.  Ava, the five year-old who is surviving her first year of kindergarten, has been the source of my worry and the focus of my seemingly undivided attention.  However, there are two little girls in my life, and the youngest one, is Maryn.

Maryn– pronounced like “Karen”, but with an “M” — is our two-and-a-half year old daughter, who makes life more entertaining.  She’s the more adventuresome one; the child who laughs louder, dances faster, and sleeps longer.   Maryn is the child who transforms a box of perfect crayons into a baggie of broken pieces, and she is also the child who squeezes her juicebox to watch the fountain of fruit punch splash the dog in the face.   Where Ava is our wallflower, Maryn is our wildflower, and we would have it no other way.

When Mike and I chose to have another baby, we never thought we’d be the parents of two girls.  Maybe it had something to do with our obstetrician, who told us during an early ultrasound that we were having a boy.  Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Maryn was a BIG girl, taking up every inch of rental property my stomach could afford.  She kicked my ribs, she rolled into other vital organs, and she sat on my bladder.   Maryn had “linebacker” written all over her sonograms.  There was no way she could be a girl, after all, the last one was dainty, petite, and accomodating.  Maryn, on the other hand, was the one who scared us whenever she could — from a threatened  miscarriage to a risky Down’s syndrome test result — yet she was born the strongest of us all.   She would be the one to earn the title of “False Alarm.”

Giving birth to a nine pound baby is no easy task, but thanks to a doctor who allowed me to be induced, and an anesthesiologist who assured me she wouldn’t let me hurt, Maryn entered the world on Groundhog Day, and I honestly never felt a thing.   In many ways, a hard pregnancy paved the way for an effortless delivery, and I was able to enjoy her from the minute we met.  

I once heard a minister discuss they way in which we judge other people’s blessings, and how we tend to grumble when we see someone get what they don’t deserve (in our opinion).  We fuss and gripe, complain and vent to our spouses or friends that life isn’t fair, and we question how God can take care of certain people when we ourselves need a little assistance in some facet of our lives.  The minister applied this notion to parenting, stating very firmly that while we love our children equally, we also love them differently.     At various times in our children’s lives (or during various hours of each day for that matter), one child gets more of our attention than the other.  We cater to a sick child more so than the well child, because he or she needs us more.  We give more hugs to the big sister when her little sister is born, since everyone else is ooohing and aaahing over the new baby.   We sing to the birthday girl on her 5th birthday, while the other child has to wait for his or her big day to be showered with gifts.   Yes, we do love them differently, and that preferential treatment isn’t anything to be ashamed of.  In fact, that specialized love for each child is exactly what they need to be accepted as their own person.  True love shouldn’t be generic in nature, nor should it be a one-size-fits-all attentiveness with duplicate boundaries attached. 

In fact, he argued that parents who state “I raised all of my children the same way, but Johnny or Amy turned out differently” deserve the stress of wondering what happened.  Children aren’t supposed to be raised in a cookie-cutter fashion, as it hinders who they are presently, and  derails who they are intended to become.  While our values and morals are to remain the same, the wayin which we guide and rear must be tailored to each child.  A what-worked-for-him-will-work-for-her mentality is a perfect way to lose one’s mind, because all too often, siblings are as different as night and day.  Why should the means of teaching them be the same, and how unfair is it to expect second or third children to conform?  If anything, this is what leads to sibling rivalry:  The parents expect, if not demand, the same result (assuming the first child was a success).   Peer pressure starts at home, in this case.

Maryn is loved so very much because she’s on the south side of being totally mischievious, and she’s determined to have a good time whenever the opportunity presents itself.  She’s the one who sleeps in her own bed, and has always done so, and she’s the one who accepts punishment without argument.   She cries when she’s extremely sick or miserably hurt, but rarely a moment in-between.   Maryn is the one who climbs to the top of the jungle gym and squeals when we scramble to reach her, and she is the one who prefers to “go cruising” in her dad’s car on the condition that he plays “shoobie-doobie” oldies music.   She wraps feather boas around her neck, grabs a glittered microphone, and performs numbers in our family room, striking a pose for the camera whenever requested.  She is the one whom I love for the independence and enthusiasm for things that scare the rest of us.  

Earthworms? Poke ‘em with a stick. 

Deep end of the pool?  Grab my swim vest.

Horses that are larger than life?  Let’s ride one!

Another kid steals her toy? Give it back.

A child who takes on the world?  That’s my girl.

My husband, their father…

“Holidays” that honor parents have become a bit of a dilemma for me now that my mother and father are deceased.  Mike and I are parents now to two little girls, so the days still carry significance, but there are moments leading up to those days in May and June that make me feel a bit lost.  I see greeting cards on shelves that are meant to be given to someone, and while many people in this world have no reason to buy them, I still feel a need to find a perfect verse to give to a perfect parent.  It’s not a moment of self pity, it’s a moment of realization that these annual events are taking on new meaning, and it’s time to look directly in front of me — as a wife and mother, as opposed to someone’s daughter of the past. 

Father’s Day is meant for Mike, now, and I look at what he brings to this role with a bit of awe.  He is truly addicted to his daughters, both of whom wear his sandy blond hair and denim blue eyes.  They flash his trademark, mega-watt smile, and they love to dance like little fools whenever he plays “oldies” from his iPod collection.  One child resembles him in the shy and quiet sense, and the other resembles him in a boy-like sense of rough-housing and “I-want-to-do-it-too” willingness.  They are water bugs like Mike, seeking a pool in any form but preferring the Atlantic, and they take their seats at the kitchen bar every Saturday, waiting for the pancake breakfast that only he is allowed to make (from scratch).    His role, however, is exhausting to watch.  He plays with Barbie dolls like other fathers play with Matchbox cars, and he has learned how to maneuver a round hairbrush with an engineer’s precision to “fluff” those sandy blond bobs.  He worries about bumps and bruises as much as he ever did, even more so, possibly, with the second daughter who seems to be attracted to accidental falls, and he shows no embarrassment in carrying two children who have been walking without help for years now.   He loves our girls with a passion that compares to no one else, not even me, and I’m content in knowing that this is the way it is.  Our girls will never doubt his love for them, and that makes me realize how lucky I am as their mother.   This is one worry or concern that will never find its way into my life.  I see unconditional love, and what better little people to receive this than my girls.

I knew Mike was the ”right one” when he showed a true sense of selflessness when it came to my own parents.  When two people marry, the rules that are supposed to guide and govern our lives demand that we leave our parents for our spouses.  While this is a commandment nonetheless, it is one that I always struggled with, because of the unconditional love aspect of being an only child who lived for the people who took care of her.   It was love in reverse; everything was done for them and because of them, out of a mixed bag of feelings — part loyalty, part obedience, part expectation, and part fear.  It was psychologically overwhelming to be accountable to two people in such extreme ways, yet Mike never questioned it or asked me to change my ways.  He allowed me to remain their daughter in the way I always had, without forcing me to choose, and without forcing me to leave them to become his.   I could have it both ways — I could have both — and not be expected to switch sides.   I know many men in this world would have divorced the woman who refused to separate from her parents, and I know many men who would have left a cloud of smoke behind them trying to free themselves of circumstances that were destined to worsen as those parents aged and became even more needy.

He never made me choose.  He allowed me to do things my way, which didn’t always benefit him in the least.  At times, he appeared to be the one on the losing end — sharing his home with my father when his mental state deteriorated due to Alzheimer’s disease, having to make midnight visits to the emergency room when his condition worsened into acts of unbelievable proportion, and listening to me debate such heartbreaking decisions that affected his long-term care.   He put up with so much, and while our own daughters were too young to understand the freedom he gave me to live without guilt, it is now my job to write entries like this one to save for them when they are older, and when they are able to process what it means to be a person of his caliber.  

So, in the days leading up to Father’s Day, I write this letter of gratitude to him, not only for being so very good to his children and to me, but for giving me the ability to pass those shelves of greeting cards with a feeling of peace and accomplishment. 

Thank you.

 

 …

Lyrics from “I Could Write a Book”, sung by Harry Connick, Jr. on the soundtrack, When Harry Met Sally:

If they asked me I could write a book
About the way you walk, and whisper and look
I could write the preface on how we met
So the world would never forget
And the simple secret of the plot
Is just to tell them that I love you a lot
Then the world discovers as my book ends
How to make two lovers of friends.

Round up and melt down

Last week, my husband, Mike, and I took our daughter, Ava to our neighborhood elementary school for what is called “Kindergarten Round Up”.  This annual event is organized to register all four and five year olds for their first year of school.  The process isn’t anything like it used to be, which is 30 years ago.  Today, a parent has to do his or her homework to make sure their child gets off on the right foot.

I failed the test.

Somehow, I was supposed to know when the actual event was going to be held (it was in the newspaper, I was told later), and somehow, I was supposed to know that pre-registration is suggested before the “real” registration day.  Somehow, I was supposed to know what to ask for when I called the school’s office, because had I known how specific the questions needed to be, I would have known that we needed more than just immunization records (as the newspaper reported).  Rather, it takes a mountain of paperwork to comply with the school board’s requirements.

For a child to enter kindergarten, he or she must see a doctor before registering, and the doctor’s office must supply a parent with two forms — the immunization record, but also, a well-child form signed by the attending physician.  Add to that an authentic, signed and sealed birth certificate, and one utility bill bearing the parents’ home address.  At this point, I wondered if my daughter was applying for kindergarten as well as a line of credit, because I had never seen so many applications in order to enter a public school.

Once we completed the necessary forms, stuffed them into a file folder, and made the short drive to her school for the actual registration, the real test began.  Just one day before, our daughter had to undergo the mandated physical exam at the pediatrician’s office, followed by booster shots — four total, two in each leg.  Still reeling from that traumatic experience, we learned that after filling out more paperwork (which should have been completed at home and returned to the school this very morning), she would need to be screened again — no matter what took place at the doctor’s office less than 24 hours ago — by a nurse, a dental hygienist, and a speech therapist. 

As parents, Mike and I felt overwhelmed.  As a child, Ava felt ambushed.

Not only did she dissolve into a deep valley of tears, she refused to participate and she refused to release her grip from our hands.  Clearly, we had not done our job to prepare her for a day of intimidation.  She was scared and we were frustrated.  Above all else, we feared the fact that she didn’t complete her screenings meant that she could not fully register for school.  After all, the common response from staff members was, “well….let’s try again in the fall and see how it goes then.”

To me, this meant she wasn’t registered, she wasn’t attending kindergarten at this time, and there was a likely chance that we’d have to sit out a year until she could get through the pre-tests.  

This time, I cried.

Later, an all-knowing friend explained to me that she is indeed registered for kindergarten, but she has to undergo screenings once she attends classes.  It wasn’t like college or a private boarding school, where admission is based on academic and extra-cirricular preformance.  It’s a public school in a neighborhood in which we are righful members — they have to accept her.  She’s five and that’s the way the system works.

Still, I watched an introverted, cautious, guarded, frightened little girl self-destruct under the pressure of earning her place in this mandatory program governed by state law.  I saw her claw her father’s arm looking for protection when “strangers”, whom she was been taught to be unsure of, attempted to talk to her, ask probing questions, get in her face with doctor’s tools and instruments, and cart her off for more pre-K testing. 

Social anxiety? Yes.  She has it … and so do we.

The fear was change.  The fear was watching a baby turn into a toddler, who then turned into a preschool child who will soon attend kindergarten as a full-fledged student.  The fear was watching our household change, to reflect her life independent of us.  The fear was allowing other people whom we didn’t know well at all, if at all, play a role in the thoughts that will fill her head and the viewpoints that will leave her mouth.  The fear was watching other children perform well under the unorganized, somewhat chaotic circumstances, while our child hid for cover. The fear was forcing ourselves to let go — maybe a little late in her life — and push her toward a “cold turkey” break from home and all of the comforts it possesses.  The fear was watching her leave the nest, when she was fighting so hard to stay in it.

I wrote a similar essay months ago entitled, “To have and to hold — until the age of 5″.  I meant it then, and I mean it now.  I read in a devotional dedicated to parenting that anything we hold onto tightly — too tightly — will be taken from us.   I believe it. 

Yes, school is a natural progression and yes, it is a good thing.  It doesn’t have to be the crying dissolve of parents’ composure.  It is a well-earned and well-deserved right of passage for parent and child. 

I have struggled with the notion that I have held my daughter back by being overly protective, sheltering, and strict.  I have struggled with the concept of preschool and other daily social programs, arguing that I gave up a career to stay with her — and be preschool through constant attention, academic tutoring, and trips exploring new things in different places.  I thought I made the right decision by returning home to stay there…to be fully present in her life. 

Now, I see that I may have taken that a bit too far.

We have until August to try to open the shell that seals the lively, perky little person that we know lives inside it.  We’ve seen her.  She’s talkative, playful, silly — yet incredibly mature for her nearly five years.  She’s my soul mate, and though I have my second daughter to look forward to in more one on one time (and will), this is the child that melts my heart because she’s my clone. I know what she’s feeling.  I have been there, and I’m returning to that place to go through it with her. 

I pray every night and day that the round up and melt down turns into an awakening of all the things a little independence has to offer. 

And, when she does attend kindergarten, I hope I am able to learn something from her.

 

To have and to hold (until the age of five)

This is the year in which I learn another lesson in courage.  I have had plenty of opportunities to practice being brave, and in 2008, I will face yet another one.  This is the year my first born goes to school, and the thought of it makes me so nervous and afraid that I feel physically sick.

I had feelings of dread when January 1st arrived, and I wasn’t sure what it was due to, but now it’s every bit as clear as glass.  In March, we will take Ava to her school to sign up for kindergarten, and in August, she will leave the nest.  I dread this day.  I want to be excited for her, and I will be worthy of a best actress nomination on the morning that I wake her up for the first day of kindergarten.  Inside, though, I will be miserable, because I have loved spending every day with her.  She’s growing up, she’s entering the world in a 5-year old’s step, and she’s going to need me less.  It isn’t about control, it’s about grief.  These are the wings that everyone talks about.  She’s leaving home for the first time, and there will be many more days like it.  School field trips. Slumber parties at friends’ houses.  High school graduations and next-day trips to the beach. College.  Marriage. 

I am worried about her because I know my child’s personality and demeanor.  She is extremely sensitive — the quiet child who observes and lives an extremely cautious life.  She is shy and reserved, and she doesn’t particularly like people.  She is slow to warm up to others, but once she does, she is quite outgoing and eager to play and talk. Her trust has to be earned.  She chooses her closest friends very carefully, and she isn’t needing of a great many playmates.  She is very emotional and quick to hurt; easily embarrassed due to a mature level of modesty that is unique for a child her age.  People have asked me about her intense timidness, whispering, “Will she grow out of that?”.  My rage surges, because I like who she is, and I know who she is.  She is her mother and father’s daughter, and she is her grandmother’s legacy in more ways than one.  A “throwback”, my aunt calls her.  An old soul.  She is a miniature version of us — yet outspoken people who don’t know restraint as this particular child does — ask if I’ve considered having her tested for autism or selective mutism.   Years ago, a shy child was a normal child.  Today, if a child doesn’t run wild or scream at the top of his or her lungs, then there must be something wrong with them.  Medication and therapy will surely follow.  It bothers me that introverted behavior (or quiet behavior to avoid labeling), is considered so rare that something else must be the matter. 

Why am I so concerned then?  Why am I worried about her when I insist there’s nothing wrong?  I’m worried because I love this petite person to the point that I can’t breathe sometimes.  I want everyone to realize how special she is, and how little it would take to break her heart.  I know she’s going to have to be hurt in this world to learn real life lessons, but I pray that it doesn’t start in kindergarten…when she enters the big, wide world — just three blocks away  — for the very first time. 

Shopping for perfection…

I thought creating a Web log would be one of my bigger mistakes, but I don’t think any type of writing practice (which is how I justify this activity) compares to the choice I made last summer.

On January 3rd, my dog, Pim of Pixie Hollow (just “Pim” for short), will turn six months old.   This is a monumental day in her life, because for the past four months, she has been one substantial piece of work.  In fact, she’s darned lucky to live in this house (what’s left of it).

It all started when two fall catalogues arrived in the mail — Orvis and L.L. Bean.  After flipping through the pages, I didn’t order matching sweaters for the family.  I ordered the family dog.  Yes, a catalog made me to do it.   On what seemed to be every single page, a golden retriever — silky, beautiful, sleeping comfortably on a tartan plaid pillow — seemed to make the photographed house complete.  A golden retriever ran with his master (in starched khaki pants and a chambray oxford); another golden retriever played gently with two children (wearing matching pajamas with padded feet).  A golden retriever lay in front of a fireplace (glowing behind stuffed Christmas stockings with elegant monogramming).  A golden retriever ran competitively beside a man on the beach (in a PolarTek jacket that kept him warm against a Maine winter day).  Yes, this is what I wanted to buy. 

If only the manufacturers had been out of stock.

An AKC-registered breeder located in a nearby state advertised on the Internet that she had a litter of seven pups for sale, all of which were ready for new homes.  Labeled “big boned and gorgeous redheads”, I thought the ease of finding my catalog dog was a sign that this decision was meant to be.  Rather, everything went so smoothly (“yes, these are the perfect pets for children, and yes, I’ll be happy to accept your personal check”), that I should have known the other chewed-shoe was about to drop.

Along with it — about $1,500 dropped in veterinary bills to repair solmonella posioning, a urinary tract infection, ear mites, and a near-ending brown recluse spider bite.  Never in my life had a free catalog cost me so much.   The puppy, which was supposed to bring such joy, laughter, and untold hours of cuddling, required newborn baby care.  She whined through the night, refused to accept crate training, and slept only in the confines of my daughter’s old playpen.   She was scared to death of the dark, suffered from extreme social and separation anxieties, and she ignored the great outdoors as her own, personal bathroom.  My house, my finances, my marriage, and my children’s freedom had been exchanged for a big boned, golden mistake.

I think what I wanted was an older dog with one paw in the grave.  One which slept all day (and all night), one which wanted to be petted (but never tug-of-war), and one which ate responsibly (and not out of the tiny hands of my toddlers).  This dog wouldn’t think twice  about chewing the spindles of the chair in which I am currently sitting, and she seems to have a craving for the syrupy taste of maple kitchen cabinets.

Correction: What I wanted was not a geriatric dog, but perfection.  What I bought was the idea of the perfect family life…the kind only magazines and catalogs make.

Now, a few months and a few oriental rugs later, I have become addicted to the thing that makes my life utterly chaotic.  I scream and yell “STOP IT” several times per hour, and my children are completely innocent.  I have become the retriever in the family: I pry open her jaws to pull toys and paper towels from her throat.   I have to benchpress her solid 65 pounds of  stubborn weight and deliver her to the backyard so that I protect and defend our hardwood floors.  Yet, she has become a bit of a child with special needs — and I am her caregiver, who desperately needs a few hours away to keep from losing my mind (since the furniture cannot be saved). 

I realize that this time in my life has made other writers extremely rich and even more well known.  Bad Dog, Marley.  Good Dog, Carl.  My Dog, Skip.    Somehow, I don’t feel as fortunate, but I do feel wiser despite my golden mistake.  

Friends tell me that in time — one or two years down the road — “she will be the best dog in the world!”.  Just as old sweatshirts become their softest and most faithful article of warm clothing after a few hundred washings, Pim will be broken in and a member of the family as precious as anything I have ever known or owned.

As for seeking therapy or group support (or, is that obedience school?) for my emotional and physical stress, I have only one thing to say:

“Hello, my name is Katy, and I am an impulsive shopper.”

This makes me very nervous….

I never thought I would design a Web log of any kind, which is strange for a writer.  I have books and journals and diaries full of thoughts, which are not complete, by the way, yet they seem more acceptable because those thoughts are…private.  Writing for everyone to read is my profession, but writing for personal reasons feels uncomfortable.  I wonder how long I will allow this page to exist before I get too nervous and delete the entire site.  Maybe my New Year’s resolution needs to be about shedding anxiety and trying something outside of my comfort zone. 

Writing about others is much easier.  Why does anyone care what I think or do all day? Isn’t this extremely vain?  I’m regretting this very much right now!