Hugo the Boss

Hugo Boss

I know I'm supposed to be writing about my little ladies.  But before there was them, there was him.  Our beloved pup, Hugo Boss the Boston Terrier.  Later in life he suffered from severe arthritis and in the end the pain was more than either of us could bear.  We said goodbye tonight, and its one of the harder days I've had.  This is what I told him…

Dear Hugo,

You were the best dog.  Period.  Thank you for sharing your too short life with us and teaching me how to love and really care for someone other than myself all those years ago.    I’m sorry for all the ways I screwed you up, I take full responsibility…but that’s what happens to the first kid.  You learn your lesson and do better.  Liesee and Poppy thank you for being my guinea pig.

On that Christmas Day when I unwrapped you and smelt your little puppy breath, I burst into tears.  To be clear, there is some debate about these waterworks. I always tell people I cried because I thought your father was going to propose (and that is true), but the whole truth is you were the most adorable, wonderful little puppy I had ever laid my eyes on.

You stole my heart within the first moment, and you stayed there and you always will. In fact, you stole the hearts of a whole group of 20 something’s that needed a dog to make their crappy apartments feel more like home.  You belonged to all of us.  You snuggled with us through heartbreak and happiness.  You were a sort of mascot and you were always our biggest fan, happy to see us and generous with your sloppy kisses.   Sorry we shuffled you around so much.  I don’t think I ever thanked you for being so adaptable. You were always good that way; quick to find the sunny spots or warm registers in each new place.

You did a lot of things that drove us nuts.  You snored louder than an obese man with sleep apnea.  But, I’ll miss that too.  It had kind of become the soundtrack of my sleep. 

Not sure what I’m going to do without your muscular little body tucked between my legs on cold winter nights.  You no doubt helped us save money on heating bills because you were our built in space heater.   You surprised quite a few dog sitters with that move too.  I always “forgot” to warn them about your tendency to really go for it.  You never discriminated, two warm legs was all you needed.

Sometimes you stepped on my face in the middle of the night, and this made me mad.  Sorry I got upset; I realize you were just trying to get comfortable.  I’m sure it was hard to share a bed with two humans.

You had a weird thing about doorbells.  I’m hoping Heaven is doorbell free, and you won’t have to worry about that anymore. 

You also had powerful pee. Remember that one time you peed on our air conditioning unit and we had to get a whole new one?  Well, I just wanted to tell you its ok.  We forgave you and actually used it as a selling point when we sold our house. ”Brand New AC Unit!”  But, seriously thanks for not ever doing that again.

You had your flaws but, man you were great at a lot of things.  You were the best snuggler.  And, you always knew when we needed you.  I wouldn’t have gotten through my pregnancies and miscarriage without your warm little body snuggled up to my side; your warmth always easing my pain. 

I don’t know that you actually understood us, but you had a way of listening where you tilted your head just so; that was pretty neat.  When we needed to see our best selves we just looked through your eyes. You were fearless, and tough, and had a bigger heart than a dog ten times your size. Your warm deep eyes saw and knew the best and worst of us…thank you for loving us anyway.

Your greatest roll was also probably your biggest demotion; top dog to big brother. Thanks for not running away when we brought Annaliese home from the hospital.  I know that was a big change, and you did way better than we expected.  As she turned from baby to toddler you were a good sport.  Thanks for letting her dress you up like a girl, poke your eyes and treat you like her baby doll.  When Poppy was born, you handled being humbled a second time with the same level of grace.  You were the best big brother, and the girls would like to personally thank you for helping them eat their peas. 

I hope you know that you are so very loved and so very very missed.  When you get to Heaven I hope you run wild and free.  No pain, no anxiety, just rivers of dog biscuits and mountains of warm fleece blankets.

Hugo Boss, I have no more words, just love.   Sleep well my dear friend, until we meet again.

Thankfully Yours.

Kate

My Tiny Ferret: Gatherer of Stuff*

I'm not sure why Tiny acts like a ferret and squirrels away all sorts of trinkets and trash, but its giving me heart palpitations.  I'm starting to worry she may have inherited her fathers need to save things "just in case."  He still talks about the coffee mugs I donated to charity two years ago.  I am a pitch-er, and live in a house of savers.  Clutter makes my skin crawl and so I get rid of things.

I've been caught multiple times by Tiny.  "Mommy!!  Why is my beautiful coloring page in the recycle bin?!"  She can't expect me to save every single piece of "art" she brings home from school, can she?  We hang the seasonal ones on the kitchen doors rotating as new projects come in, and the really sentimental ones I may hang onto a bit longer, but to her they are ALL special.  Everytime she catches me I pretend they accidentally fell in the bin, or when I'm really desperate I throw hubs under the bus.  (Note to self…start using the big recycle bin in the garage.)  Now before you judge, I'm not a total monster...I take pictures of the really cute ones thinking someday I'll Pinterest what to do with them.  Even I can't seem to part with anything made with a hand or footprint….I just can't bring myself to pitch baby toes…yet.

But its not just the art turned trash…she wants to save ACTUAL trash too.  Two nights ago as I was kissing Tiny goodnight I felt something in her little hand scratch my neck.  Upon further inspection she was carefully cuddling a tiny plastic hang tag that had been ripped from our latest Target couture.
Me: Uh, why are you holding that piece of garbage?
Tiny: It's not garbage mommmmy!!  It's special.
Me: Well, whatever it is, you can't sleep with it.  Can mommy have it so I can put it on your bookshelf?
Tiny:  No.
Me: Please.
Tiny: No.  I need to sleep with it.
Me: uhhhhhh…ok but just don't stick it in your mouth.  You could choke on that thing…and if you choke on that thing in the middle of the night I will be so mad at you.
Tiny: Ok, I won't. I'm just going to snuggle with it.

An hour later, I hear whimpering coming from her room…oh god is she choking?!?  I scale the stairs two by two prepared to do the heimlich.  But she's not choking, she's upset because she "lost" her little piece of plastic garbage.  Queue those crazy eyes again…this is weird, right?!?  I want to scream, but instead calmly vow to find it in the morning.  I did just that as I was making her bed, while Tiny was at school…and promptly threw it in the trash.  Later, "Mommy did you find my plastic?"  "No, honey it must have magically disappeared."  (Here's where you can nominate me for mom of the year.)

She also has a knack for gathering a collection of things. Maybe she's preparing for the future behemoth handbag she'll lug around someday full of everything from spare clothes to wipes to naked barbies (and yes that is the current contents of my purse), but tiny loves to put teeny tiny bits of stuff into any little container she can find.  There are tiny purses and gift bags and knick knack boxes all over my house that have been stuffed to the gils with little dolls, legos, crayons, puzzle pieces, wait! is that my diamond ring?, hair bows, scrabble tiles, cheerios and coins….and, it makes me feel crazy.

I'm not very type A but when it comes to toy organization I am a little kookoo.  I can't stand to have toys all mixed together, and right now Tiny's favorite game is toy soup.  Worst of all she "gifts" me these little treasure boxes of crap and I feign total joy. I know I'm supposed to be in the moment and I am, I really am, but I don't like toy soup.  I don't want my "food" to touch.

So what's a clutter-phob to do?  I'll tell you what…nothing.  I just bury my feelings under piles of baby-toe artwork and take it.  Someday she'll have something a whole lot worse in her bed and the contents of her purse will be as mysterious to me as a toddler's need to squirrel.   Instead, I'll politely say thank you for the box of treasures and kiss tiny pieces of plastic good night.

*if you haven't seen Ferrets: The Pursuit of Excellence this title is in reference to, stop everything you are doing and watch it now.

How long do you save this piece of fine art?

Tiny's latest snuggle buddy.

Exhibit A: Toy Soup

Exhibit B: Tiny's Special Suitcase

"Are these for my boobies?" - Tiny in reference to the coconuts.

The Ferret

Ferret in Training

"Are You Serious Right Now?"

We are having a challenging month.  Teeny is a speed crawler on the verge of walking and is very "curious." Read, she opens cabinets, eats tiny bits of god knows what off the floor (wait, is that a dead fly?!?) and I cannot take my eyes off of her for a single solitary moment.

And….Tiny is in the testing phase.  I'm the student, and I'm failing.  It's a cat and mouse game of lets see how far I can push mommy before she explodes.  She knows how to push my buttons better than anyone, well except maybe hubs….hmmm come to think of it, did he teach her these tactics?  are they plotting against me?  I digress. At any given moment I find myself on the brink of a toddler meltdown…but like Anna's frozen heart, the whole house melts down including this mama.

Tiny is getting in trouble.  But, how many times can you send a three year old to time out in the course of a week?  Is she learning anything?  Does she have to scream so loud? I wish I had a sound proof room.  Add sound proof glass room to my list of must haves in my dream house.  She has some seriously strong pipes.    I'm pretty sure she gets this from my side of the family; we are loud and we breed more loud people.  (And there folks is a glimpse at my internal monologue.)  Back to the point...

Tiny has this way of unnerving me.  When I'm trying to have a serious talk with her about throwing a fit, how to treat her sister or why kicking our seriously arthritic dog is a bad idea she comes back at me with one liners that knock me on my butt. She is a master of spin and I know I've said it before but its just possible she might be a genius.  That, or she's working with the CIA, and this is some crazy training regime grooming me for their terrorist negotiation division.

Her most impressive comebacks this week:

"Are you serious right now?" - Clearly she learned this from me.  What is wrong with me? For my part I know I've said this at the dinner table when I've gotten up and down from my seat a half a dozen times, I'm ready to finally take a nice big bite of my now luke warm food and she says, "I need more milk."  Enter me…"are you serious right now?"  Followed, of course, by "Tiny, if you want more milk you are going to have to use manners and ask the right way."  But, the quick response is leaving my mouth quicker than Catholics after communion.  And, she's taking notes, filing it under "I'm going to use that line later," and I'm dead serious right now.

"You're cracking me up." - Sometimes after a particularly rough day hubs has a little chat with Tiny.  And lucky for me, he has my back. Conversation goes something like this:

Hubs: "Tiny you really can't talk to your mommy that way. Throwing a fit will only get you in trouble.  You need to use your manners, blah, blah, blah."
Tiny: "Ha. You're cracking me up Dad."

Yep, true story. What's a parent to say?  She saw an opening and she took it.  And, like a bomb expert diffused the situation in seconds.  Soon we were all "cracking up."

"Remember that one time we saw a unicorn and it had pink hair?" - Here is where you can picture a cartoon me, with smoke coming out of my ears, hair sticking straight up and eyes rolled back in my rapidly spinning head.  "Are you serious right now? (oops, I did it again)  I'm trying to talk to you about why hiding in the unreachable tube at the very top of the Chikfila jungle gym is a bad choice. And you want to talk about UNICORNS?!?"  See?  Genius!

"Take a deep breath mom." - She's good.  And, (breathe in, breathe out) she's right.  So what if we are late to story time? Who cares if she won't let me brush her hair and chooses to dress like a Catholic school girl circa Hit Me Baby One More Time?  I need to pick my battles and just BREATHE.

Teeny showcasing her curiosity.
Poppy: 1 Christmas Ornament: 0

Practicing her listening skills.

They are sweet sisters most of the time.
It's really fun to watch them play together, until Teeny
grabs one too many of the Tiny's toys. POPPY!! 

If you look real close you can see a foot sticking
out of the tunnel.  On this day Tiny refused to nap
in her bed and opted to sleep in a tent next to it in protest.
I see activist in her future, already demonstrating a sit-in.

Are you serious?

It's Britney B!tch

Reality.  Loving is hard sometimes.

Snap Back to Reality, Oops there goes Dignity

It’s been an eventful month.  From the white sandy shores of South Beach to the NBC Studios in NYC…we came, we saw, we conquered.

For three glorious days friends and I lived the good life in Miami, eating, sleeping, drinking and doing whatever it is we please.  Sipping mimosa as we cruised to the Bahamas, lounging by a South Beach pool with the buzz of electronica in our zenned out ears, reading full chapters of our books, eating hot food, drinking cold beers, and wearing heels!  This mama needed a break to refresh, recharge and Miami delivered.

On the plane ride home I was jazzed to see my ladies.  I’d missed their squishy little hands, their giggles, the way the smell like a nice warm shower…I couldn’t wait to give them squeezies, and tell Tiny all about the beach lined with Conch shells as far as the eye could see. 

As the plane touched down, and I turned off Airplane Mode, the phone rings.  It’s Nana presumably to tell me they are waiting outside to fetch me. 

But, its not that simple. It never is.  Liesee has to go potty and she only wants me to take her, they’re on their way in….well, that didn’t take long.  My mom hat officially back on, I rush off the plane, find Nana, hand her my carry on and scoop up Tiny to head for the airport potty.  She pees, I pee…pants up, tutu back on, check, check.   I attempt to exit, doing my best to slide the lock but it won’t budge.  We are trapped.  I’m jiggling, wiggling, pulling, prodding…nothing.  I start banging, knocking, (cursing), kicking…nothing.  We have one choice, and it ain’t pretty.   Our fight is gone, flight the only option…but who do I send under first.

There’s about an 8” clearance between the bottom of the stall door and the grimy tile floor, and the stall is small, really small (hard for two people even though one of them is a toddler to stand without touching the toilet or the door small) and I do a quick calculation in my head and decide Tiny has to go out first.  The possibility of her running out of the bathroom without me seems less risky then the thought of leaving her in the toilet alone to touch and lick whatever she pleases.  She ducks under in two seconds flat, and happily screams “its your turn mama!”  And, the thought occurs to me, she’s actually enjoying this. 

I get down on my knees to try and squeeze under, but the clearance is too low.  I’ve got to bite the bullet and lay flat on my stomach and army crawl my butt out of there.  I’m sick, and not from the tequila two nights earlier, but from the smell of lemon scented disinfectant and public restroom stank that’s washing over me as I slither out.  While the bottom of the door is leaving a nice scrape across my spine, I’m struck by the hilarity of it all.   Less than 24 hours ago I was lying out on a hot sandy beach, and now I’m lying on the cold, gritty floor of an airport bathroom.  This is who I really am: a mama, her mama.  Who else would lie down on the bathroom floor for her?

 Tiny is thrilled, we’ve made it out, and I may as well be a super hero.…we both jump up and down and then perform a surgical scrub in the bathroom sink, making note to burn the clothes on our backs when we get home. Leave no evidence. 

For a few short days I was all mine, and I needed that to reconnect with me. But now I’m all hers... bathroom cooties and all.

Next stop, NYC…

Awwwww….paradise!

Tiny dressed herself for our date night.

Yep…still the happiest kid on earth.

I can't imagine what 'wisdom' Tiny is sharing,
but Teeny hangs onto her every word.
T-R-O-U-B-L-E

I've Got 99 Problems and Poo is #1 (or #2)

I hate talking about poo.  I really do.  My long time friends know this is a subject I avoid.  Ask my in-laws about my disgust and quick dinner table departures if the subject of their kids’ poo came up.  I HATED the thought of a children’s book titled, “Everyone Poops.” Now, I own it. 

Like any closet shame, it’s time I share; my name is Kate and my Tiny Fashionista won’t poop. And now I must talk about it. Every. Single. Day.

For parents out there that have a “holder” you will sympathize and understand every raw, disgusting word of this.  For those, like the old me, without kids, or with kids without poop problems feel free to skip this post. I get it, and I’ll see you next week.

We have been battling this epidemic for over a year. It starts with a little creeping thought…hmmm.  “Doesn’t seem like I’ve changed a poopy diaper in a few days.”  Then, hmmmm, “did she go at all this week?”

Then there are the horrible grunting noises that you mistake for, “oh my kid is trying to go.”  In reality these are the sounds of a child desperately trying to hold in a poo that wants to escape. (Queue crazy eyes…this is a real thing.)

And, of course there are the fights, the pleas, the closed door deals…”PLEEEASSEEE, if you poop I’ll buy you a puppy.  Seriously, whatever you want I’ll buy it, just please for the love of Christ and all things holy…just poop!!!”

For Tiny, this holding stage started long before potty training.  I’m not sure if its her “type A I need to control everything, including when I poop personality” or the fact that she had a couple of doozies that hurt and now she’s gun shy (she has a mind like a steal trap, and also apparently a butt), but the reality is, it doesn’t matter, if you have a kid that won’t poop, it’s maddening. 

We’ve had doctor appointments that led to conversations about fiber intake, daily doses of Miralax, pro-biotics, potty charts and prize boxes.  I’ve read books, with title’s like “It’s No Accident” and blogs suggesting it’s a phase. But we’re tired.  Oh, so very tired.

Poop is coming between us.  Or, err, the lack of poop is coming between me and my best girl.  (There’s a sentence I never thought I’d type.  See?!? What has become of me?)  Number two is the number one thing we fight about.  We are both frustrated. 

So, if you are waging a Poop War, like me, here are the tips I’ve gathered in my year of research and desperation. These have helped win some battles, but until I get a grip on my own frustration I doubt I’ll see poopoo waving the white flag of surrender. I am no Master General, merely a foot soldier in this messy battlefield with some real tactical experience searching for “land mines.” And here are a few things I’ve learned in the trenches…

1. Patience.  Well, actually I’m still trying to master this one.  But, I know it is required even when I don’t practice this.  (You know what they say, “those that can’t do, teach.”)  The more frustrated I get, the more frustrated Tiny gets and this helps no one.  When I can just learn to relax, and let her drive the proverbial poop bus, miracles happen…or in our case, sh$t happens.
2. Tummy Juice. A magical mixture of Miralax and your child’s favorite clear beverage like Gatorade.  I was very hesitant to throw drugs at the problem refusing to believe I was a parent that couldn’t get my kid to eat her veggies. I desperately wanted to fix the problem with diet and patience, but that didn’t work.  In our case, which is a really tough one, a little extra help is required.  The biggest mistake I’ve made is yo-yo-ing the Miralax; give it to her for a few days and then think she’s cured so I back off and the trouble starts again.  I’ve learned that she needs it every single day so she can have (the squeamish put on your blinders here…sh$t’s about to get real) poopoo that resembles peanut butter vs. boulders.
3.  Hide the Fiber, and Limit Dairy.   Dr. Steve Hodges talks about being a Super Pooper in his book, “It’s No Accident.”  A kid can’t stay on Miralax forever (at least I’d like to think we’ll “Let it Go! Let if Go!” someday), and a diet high in fiber is crucial to graduate from Tummy Juice.  But, if you have a kid like mine that thinks most green vegetables are “gross” this can be tough.  So we play hide the fiber.  We make smoothies with fruit, almond milk, flax seeds, kale and psyllium husk.  We eat Whole Grain waffles with zucchini and make high fiber muffins.  Our cookies are always full of super-pooping ingredients (thanks mom for the “crap” cookie recipe) and our popsicles are just frozen versions of our high fiber smoothies.  We eat Almond Butter and Almond Milk instead of Peanut Butter and cow’s milk.  Our favorite snack is popcorn and we try to mix nuts and seeds into all of our “mixy snacks” (trail mix).  I’m happy to share some recipes I’ve found…if this speaks to you email me.
4.  Master Cleanse.  If you suspect your problem is outrageous, it probably is.  Ask your doc about an x-ray to see if what ails your holder is a giant softball size mass of poop in their rectum.  I’m serious.  Its so, so gross but a real thing.  An x-ray at your doc’s office can quickly answer this question.  And, a master cleanse, as in “colonoscopy-style” may be required. Do this on a weekend, buy yourself a bottle of booze and see #8.
5.  No Big Deal.  Tiny is totally pee-trained.  She hasn’t had a pee accident since the day she decided that the potty was her jam.  But, like Justin and Selena, she has been on again, off again with the potty and #2.  This makes me insane.  But, like that clever little, so sweet you want to vomit, Daniel Tiger says, “when you feel so mad that you want to roar, take a deep breath and count to four.”  Seriously.  Do it.  If you have a holder chances are your child is also afraid to poop in the potty.  They will have accidents, and the biggest thing I can say about this is…try to let it roll off your back and celebrate on the inside that at least she pooped.  A little accident is no big deal, and then see #8.
6. Safe Haven.  If pooping on the potty scares your holder.  Back off.  When she starts telling you her tummy hurts or saying your name over and over in a really weird way, give her an out.  I always offer the potty, but then offer to let her do her business in a diaper in a private room.  This isn’t ideal, but at least she’s pooping. Also, it doesn't hurt to have a panic room for yourself.  When you find you are about to "lose your sh$t," recognize this does nothing to actually make her "lose" hers and go to your happy place.
7. Keep Asking.  Ask and don’t judge, especially when the answer you get isn’t the one you want.  I’ve learned that my kid can hold her pee too.  Everyday I ask her to go potty before we leave the house.  And, if she doesn’t have to, she simply won’t do it.  She goes to school from 9-2, two days a week and has yet to pee there.  Yes, I’m worried.  But, she pees a river when she gets home and all I can do is keep asking.   
8. Throw the Panties Away.  Sometimes the juice just ain’t worth the squeeze.  Wrap those suckers up in a Walmart bag and toss them right in the trash.  Nothing worse than piling on the frustration by scrubbing poop stains and crazy messes out of $2 underpants.  Throw them away, wash your hands of them (literally) and walk away.

Reading this advice may do nothing, but make you feel less alone.   We are a long way from winning the war, but at least I feel like I’ve finally figured out what we are fighting.  Go into your next battle knowing you are not alone, there is a community of parents that feel your pain, and just like you, wish like hell we could make our kids poop without pain and anxiety.   If you have any wisdom on the subject, please share…I’m like a sponge and can’t get enough information on the science of poo. (oh dear god, did i just type that?)

Also, the big duh here…I’m not a doctor.  Ask your pediatrician if you suspect your holder may benefit from any of this nonsense.

This is an actual real life conversation btw
me and my SIL…sometimes it feels like she's
the only one that understands me.

A Poop Fit…and like the stellar mom I am.
First Reaction…grab camera.

We are so very tired.

And, in less sh$tty bathroom news…
the sissies are big enough to take baths together.