The Wrong Name Seems So Right

Keith and I have finally started looking in earnest at baby names. Of course, "looking in earnest" means trying to seriously discuss some real potential candidates ... a discussion which quickly devolves into suggesting totally inappropriate possibilities (like Landon, so he could be Land Lubbers).

Last time, we quickly agreed on a boy's name and couldn't really make up our minds about a girl's name. When we drove to the hospital for Eleanor's birth, we still had a list of at least 10 girl names. Eleanor was at the top, but still by no means a certainty.

This time, we're having the opposite issue. I think we're close to agreement on a girl's name, but have no idea what we want for a boy's name. I know we picked one last time and didn't use it, but it's too late. We don't really like that name anymore, so we're back to square one.

I've been looking at baby name websites, of which there are a million, and keeping a list of any boy names with potential. During this search, I discovered that Gomez apparently means "the man." Gomez is, of course, the name of our adorable little female kitten. Whoops!

Of course, as a neutered animal, gender is really a moot point for her. And I always maintain that there's more leeway with pet names than with kids. I can name a pet something slightly ridiculous and, perhaps, gender-bending, and have no qualms about it, whereas I tend to be very straightforward with children's names.

We chose the name Gomez for our favorite band, then we got the cat; irregardless of the cat's gender or appearance, it was going to be a Gomez. She may not be masculine. She is not even human. But somehow, she's still a Gomez and we love her!

(And no, Gomez is not in the running for the baby's name, girl or boy.)

My Favorite Way to Grade

Especially when it's rainy and cold, like it has been lately. But of course, when not pregnant, there's also a glass of red wine on the table next to me.

I'm getting to the grading part of the semester. Only one month left to go. The rest of the lessons are (mostly) planned out. The assignments are created. Now it's just grade, grade, grade!

The Comfort of a Pillow Pet

Eleanor's friend down the street gave her a pillow pet for Christmas.

(Short digression: I really haven't written about Christmas, and I'm not really sure why. It was wonderful, we had a great time, we all got many lovely gifts. So I'm not sure why I've just not felt like writing about it. Maybe because it's over and I just need to accept that? But anyway, maybe I'll get around to Christmas in February or something.)

The pillow pet was one of the first gifts that Eleanor got, and is one of her favorites. We love how much she loves to sit on it and read. When Keith took this picture, she had gotten herself all situated. She carefully placed the pillow pet on the floor in the dining room. Then she went and grabbed a pile of books and laid them out in a tidy row. Then she proceeded to go down the row, picking up one book and "reading" it (she has them all memorized, including our tone and inflections in dialogue), and then moving on to the next one.

We had a good 15 minutes of time to cook dinner together and talk about the day! This ability to entertain herself has been happening more and more lately. It's amazing and wonderful and also makes me a little sad. I'm absolutely certain that her overwhelming need for me is going to drive me crazy .... until the day that it's gone. Until the day where she gets dressed, goes to school, comes home from school and goes straight to her room to read or whatever, or—even worse—doesn't even come home after school, because she's at a friend's house or some activity. So I go the whole day without seeing her.

Once that happens, I'll remember these days with longing. Like today, where she offered her hand and said, "Mama, I'll help you up so you can come play dollhouse with me." These days where I'm her favorite playmate and my boring, repetitive stories delight and entertain her.

Of course, once she moves on, we still have some pets that will need us. I've been meaning to write this post for ages, but since that first picture with the pillow pet, we've found someone else in the house who loves it just as much, if not more.

Gomez is laying on the pillow pet constantly. Wherever it has landed, she seeks it out. Except, at the moment, she's curled up in my lap. It's good to know that the cat thinks I'm better than the pillow pet!

I do want Eleanor to learn to entertain herself and be independent. The best-case scenario is that tonight she pulls out the pillow pet for a solitary reading session .... and then comes and takes my hand to help me up, so I can play with her.

A feline excuse

So, it's naptime. My plan was to eat lunch, do some laundry, clean the basement (sneak in some TV watching while I do it ....), catch up on the blog, etc.

I fell apart at laundry. We've gotten into a bad habit of washing all the laundry, but never actually putting it away. It goes from the dirty hamper to the washer, dryer ... and onto the couch, and then back onto our persons. The drawers/closet are not really involved.

I have a load of laundry in now, but there were already two loads on the couch. After putting the laundry in the washer, I did get the lunch and pick up the basement a little bit. By the time I was ready to fold the existing laundry .... it was too late. Somehow, I've lost my motivation.













A nap is sounding really good.

Stumpy Is Recovering Nicely

I posted two very traumatized entries about Gomez's unfortunate accident ... and then never mentioned it again.

So I did think I should take a moment to say that she is healing nicely. Don't let the serene expression fool you—she hates the plastic cone. But the vet gave us dire warnings about how we need to watch her carefully without the cone because she could rip out the stitches and cause major damage in a minute flat. I take off the cone when I know we can spend some time together and wow, does she do a lot of grooming! I never knew until now. I used to call Becket the teenager of the family because he sleeps in until noon and sighs a lot. But I might be changing my mind, based on grooming habits.

You have to look closely in the second picture to see what's left of her tail, otherwise you might miss it. Oddly, the worst part is the fact that it's not furry. Thankfully the fur is starting to grow back in so it's looking better every day. She gets the stitches out this coming Friday. I am so ready to put this whole incident behind us! (Sorry, that seems like a bad pun. Cut this traumatic episode short?)

It does make me concerned about what happens when, for the first time, Eleanor does herself some serious damage. I know it's kids and life and it's bound to happen. Have I mentioned that Eleanor now likes to bungee jump? She gets in her Johnny Jump Up, then climbs on her little plastic chair and jumps off. That's my girl! So I do foresee trips to the emergency room in our future. But if I couldn't sleep or concentrate for a week when my cat got hurt .... what am I going to be like for my kid?!? Yikes.

Snowed In, Black & Blue

By 5 o'clock the next evening (Tuesday), I'm a wreck. I've spent the entire past day worrying about Gomez. Is it bad? How bad is it? It can't be that bad, right?

I barely see her all day Tuesday. I go to campus for a few hours of technology training, while Erin watches Eleanor. When I get back, we feed the babies, we eat lunch, the babies go down for a nap .... I try looking for Gomez in all the usual spots, but to no avail. She had spent Monday night under our bed. I could hear her moving and licking throughout the night. I didn't sleep well. I tried to stay in position, the way she likes me, with my arm curled just so, perfect for a small cat body to curl into my warmth in the middle of the night. In the morning I woke up tired, stiff, and restless, but she never came.

So by Tuesday afternoon, I'm getting worried. I understand that, if she's hurt, she's going to want to be alone to lick her wounds. But I need to see her, and make sure she's not looking worse than the day before. Plus, if I don't know where to find her or at least what area of the house she's in, how are we going to catch her to even get her to the vet? Keith is already leaving work early so he can get home, we (gently!) stuff her into the carrier and I can get her to the vet by 5 o'clock. We don't have a lot of time to spare, waiting for Gomez to grace us with her presence.

Erin and I are both in the kitchen, talking, and I think I hear Gomez's collar clinking softly in the basement. I look at Erin, and she hears it, too. I go to the basement, closing the door behind me. Again, I call for her and she comes to me. I love that cat. She is looking a lot better, and my heart soars. She's cleaned off all the blood, so the fur on her tail looks normal, but it's still bent at a funny angle. So what if Gomez's tail always has a kink from now on? I'll still love her!

I pet her and scratch behind her ears and tell her how wonderful she is. Then I give her the "good news" that we're taking her to the vet in a few hours to get checked out, so she'll feel better. As the word "vet" crosses my lips, she turns away and runs back under the couch.

How does she even know what that means?!? Our friend who runs the shelter where we first got Gomez comes to the house to give her vaccinations every year, so other getting spayed at 8 weeks or so, she's never been to the vet. But Beckett must have told her it was bad news, because she was off like a shot.

But at least I saw her, she was looking better, and I knew what part of the house she was in. I closed off the basement and went back upstairs. On second thought, I grabbed the cat carrier and took it back downstairs with treats in it. She came out again to sniff the carrier, and I started feeling better about our prospects for that evening.

By 5:30, I'm angrily texting Keith from the waiting room at the vet's. We've been sitting for a half-hour without even being shown into an exam room. Very frustrating when they gave me a hard time about being prompt for our appointment! Finally, we get shown into a room. I explain what happened—by this point, I've adopted my mom's theory that Gomez must have been playing with the stockings from below, because otherwise how could the stocking holder have landed on her tail? Or rather, I explain what we think happened, and that I'm certain her tail is hurt.

"I don't know if it's broken," I say, "but it's definitely cut. I think I saw flesh when she let me get close."

The vet's eyes widen. "Flesh?"

I shift uncomfortably. "Maybe not. Maybe I was wrong about that." This is my first indication that this appointment might not go as well as I'd hoped.

The vet and the assistant take Gomez in the back to cut away some of the fur and take a good look at the tail. The vet is back in short order, with bad news. She says that the tail is seriously lacerated. She's not sure if she will be able to suture it back together, or if she'll have to amputate.

Amputate.

I was completely shocked. I was so worried about whether it was broken or not, I never considered that the cut would be the worst part. Skin heals, right?

She said she would like to wait until the rest of the clients were gone, so she could take time to sedate Gomez (who was in a lot of pain during the exam) and get a closer look. If it looked like she could suture the tail, she would do it that night and I could take Gomez home the next morning (Wednesday). If she would have to amputate (amputate!) the tail, she wouldn't be able to do it until Thursday. She would call me that evening with the results.

I signed the paperwork for the sedation and left in a daze. I had told Keith I'd call him as soon as I knew what was going on, but I couldn't. I was relatively certain that, if I called and talked to him, I would cry. And I really didn't want to be driving home in the snow, bawling.

I walked in the kitchen while he was cooking dinner. Eleanor ran over and gave me a hug. Keith took one look at me and his eyes widened. "Where's the cat?" he immediately said.

It wasn't too much longer before the vet called to say that the cut was too deep, and she would have to amputate. They asked whether we wanted to bring her home on Wednesday morning and bring her back first thing Thursday for the surgery, or have her stay at the vet's until after surgery. I asked them to keep her, because I was too scared of her doing something else while she was home, and trying to catch her again.

The house felt so empty without her all day Wednesday and Thursday. I couldn't stop worrying about her. I kept wondering whether the outcome would have been different if I had brought her to the vet earlier. I asked Keith if I should pose that question to the vet, and he said, "No!"

What would it change, really? I wanted to hear that I did the right thing and it wouldn't have mattered, but what if that's not the answer I got? I'd rather live with not knowing than live with knowing I cost Gomez her tail. Besides, the stocking holder is already in the garage, in the Goodwill pile. This is a situation that I hope to never encounter again, so hearing what I should have done would not be useful knowledge.

The surgery was Thursday morning; the vet said they'd call in the morning and I could probably pick her up in the afternoon. I lasted until 11:40am, picturing all kinds of worst-case scenarios because they hadn't yet called, and finally called them. The receptionist confirmed that Gomez was out of surgery, it all went fine, and I could pick her up at 4 o'clock.

That was wonderful news, and my heart lifted a little. I just had to stare at the clock for 4 hours .... Eleanor and I arrived at the vet's at 3:53pm. After another long wait in reception (which I didn't mind so much, because I was pretty nervous about the "reveal"), we were ushered back into a room to see Gomez. The assistant brought her in, already in the carrier and set it on the table. Once she left, Eleanor and I peered in.

Gomez peered back. I don't know what I was expecting. That I wouldn't recognize her? She looked just like Gomez! From the front, anyway. From the back .... she's much more ... compact. The tail is just a little stub, now. We thought she'd have more tail than that, because the cut was much further down. But the vet explained sometimes there's issues with blood flow if you amputate too close to the injured area, so she wanted to be safe and cut the tail shorter to prevent any future problems.

I'm now sitting on the couch, typing. Gomez is curled up underneath the couch, refusing to come out. I think she's embarrassed by her restraint color and bandaged stump. But mostly by the collar. It's not very dignified. We did try taking it off for 30 seconds, and she immediately started attacking the stump. So, undignified though it is, it will stay on.

Now that I've finally poured out the whole entire saga (I know, this was way too long, but it was very cathartic for me. Thanks!), I'm going to bed. I will curl myself in the perfect position, on my side with my arm extended. Just right for holding a healing cat with a tail stump, should she decide to join me. I love that cat.

Photo courtesy of Keith, as nearly all photos are. The good ones, anyway.

Snowed In and Bluer

So you remember how I was feeling all sorry for myself on Monday morning, because of the weather and all? Little did I know how much worse it was going to get.

First, I ruined the oatmeal. How can you ruin oatmeal, right? Well, a few months ago I switched from instant packets to steelcut oats (are you proud of me, Gege?) to make it a bit healthier. With the steelcut oats, you boil water on the stove and then add the oats and let them simmer about 20 minutes. (FYI, Eleanor LOVES them!) I've done this about a million times. But for some reason, Monday morning I measured and poured in the water, and then measured and immediately poured in the oats, into the cold water.

I watched the oats falling into the pan and thought, "Why in the world did I do that? I've never done that before. Is this a sign that today isn't going to go well?" I tried to convince myself it wouldn't make that much of a difference, but it really did. The resulting muck was neither tasty nor texturally pleasing.

Fast forward to lunch. (The rest of the morning was fine.) I am feeding Eleanor lunch in the dining room, when we suddenly hear a big crash in the living room. Gomez goes streaking past us, on her way to the basement. I see a Christmas stocking on the floor, and realize that she managed to knock the heavy metal stocking holder off the mantel. I put everything back and go on with lunch. For the next 10 minutes or so, I occasionally notice that Gomez is completely spazzing out. Not that she's anywhere near us. First she's in the basement, then in the attic, then back to the basement, running around like a cat possessed. This is not a good sign, but not a terrible sign. She did this before when she was playing with yarn and got it wrapped around her leg and it freaked her out.

Eleanor and I do a brief tour of the house, but can't find the cat. Now I'm getting worried. What did she do?!? I take Eleanor up to her room for her nap. Thankfully, she's asleep in 10 minutes flat. I quietly close the door and then race around the house, trying to locate the cat and (hopefully) get the offending piece of yarn off her leg so we can snuggle.

I can't find Gomez anywhere. But I do find blood on the stairs down to the basement, and on the doorframe up to the attic. This, plus her conspicuous absence, is definitely not good. My heart and mind are racing. What could she have done?!?

I look under our bed, which is where she usually goes to hide when upset. She's definitely not there. At first, I can't find either Gomez or Beckett, and I stop breathing. Did both the pets escape? But all the doors are closed! It's a weird, animal-version of the locked room mystery. But the mystery is solved when I realize that Beckett actually managed to get himself all the way under the covers for once, and is sleeping in a tight, warm little ball on the bed. I yank off the covers and say, "Beckett! Have you seen your sister? I think something happened, and I'm worried. Do you know where she is?"

He doesn't say anything, but it's clear that he's not at all concerned. I decide to look on/under the guest bed. As I'm looking under the guest bed, Gomez comes running down the hall to me. I love that cat. I couldn't find her, but she made sure to come to me and tell me that she was okay.

Except, of course, she wasn't. She purred and headbutted me, but she was still agitated. I saw blood on one dainty paw, and her tail was matted about 3/4s of the way down. She patted me down and climbed all over me. I pet her and talked to her, hoping that she would settle in on my lap long enough for me to assess the damage. But instead something spooked her and she ran off again.

I decide to settle in on the living room couch and call for her. Clearly, I can't find her if she doesn't want to be found. And she usually does find me when I'm sitting there and curl up on my lap (part of the reason why I don't always post as many blog entries as I mean to).

So that's what I do, and she does come to me. I love that cat. She had to be in pain, but she took the time to reassure me that she had everything under control. She patted me down and sat in my lap for awhile. This time, it was clearly her tail that was the problem. She was running around just fine, so I decided the blood on her paw probably came from her tail. I can see that one spot on her tail that is completely matted, and there is a definite kink. Once I see it, it's obvious. It hurts to watch her try to move the tail, and the end just .... doesn't. The lack of cohesive tail movement freaks her out again, and she's off.

So: What do I do? My plan for the day, if you'll recall, was to hunker down in my pajamas and not set foot outside. Everything is covered in snow and I'm not even sure if I can get the car out of the drive, much less what the state of the roads would be. I don't want to take Eleanor out in this weather unless I absolutely have to.

Do I absolutely have to? I mean, Gomez seems to think that she has everything under control. She's reassured me several times. I've conferred with Mom and Keith and Mary Lou. Everyone agrees that since she doesn't have a concussion, there's probably not much that can be done. If the tail is broken, the vet will take an x-ray and splint it, but it's not a treatment that warrants taking the baby out in this weather.

On Keith's good advice, I do call the vet and see what time their latest appointment is that day. It's 4:40—still too early for Keith to be home from work. I am not at all confident of my ability to get a wounded, scared cat into the hated carrier all by myself, or with Eleanor's help, rather. So that's what really makes up my mind not to take her in that day. I make an appointment for 5:00pm the next day.

(to be continued)

In the Spotlight

So if I can harp on it just one more time, I broke my finger two years ago while running before dawn. That put me off running before work for awhile. (Plus, you know, pregnancy and then having a baby to care for and all.)

But recently, I decided to start running early in the day again. Mostly because of that whole baby thing; it's really the only time that I can count on it happening. I was excited, but nervous. What if I fell and broke my wrist this time. How stupid would I seem THEN?!? To do it once is understandable. But twice is a little ridiculous.

I did run a few times when it was still dark out, and I just felt so vulnerable. I spent the whole time looking at my feet. Was that a shadow? Or is my foot about to be swallowed by a mammoth pothole? I was happy to be getting out again, but it wasn't the most enjoyable experience ever.

But then I remembered that, for his birthday, my Mother-in-law gave Keith a running headlamp. He's never worn it (I guess, for some reason, he feels it's unnecessary when he runs downtown on his lunch hour). So I had to hound him to dig it up, but he found it eventually. And wow! What a difference it makes.

I feel so much better and more secure running with my very own headlight. Literally. So far I've chosen to use the one that clips onto the underside of a baseball hat brim, which somehow seems slightly less dorky looking than the contraption that actually straps directly to your head.

There are a few things that I need to keep in mind, however:

1. I can't look other runners in the eyes and nod a friendly "Hello!" without blinding them.
2. I feel bad for Beckett when he has to make a pitstop, because I'm watching and waiting for him to finish (especially if it's something I'm going to have to pick up), and that means he is in a spotlight of sorts. No privacy here!
3. I can't try to peer into softly lit windows without giving away my voyeuristic tendencies. This morning I was running past this gorgeous mansion that I am always curious about. I fantasize about moving in there—there's even a second apartment on the grounds, above the garage and just past the pool, where visitors could stay or that could become my writing nook. (Because of course, for us to move into this place either Keith would have to create a bestselling web app or iPod app or I would have to write The Great American Novel.) So anyway, this morning I was running past about 5:45am and I saw a light on. Could I see inside? What was the decor like? Was it one of the owners that was up already? Or do they actually have servants? As I turned to get a better look, I saw the beam of my headlamp flash over the curb, up over the lush green grass and well-trimmed shrubberies, and into the window itself. I quickly looked back at my feet and picked up the pace.

Greeting the Dawn

At 5:45 this morning, it was still dark out. I finished lacing up my shoes, turned on my iPod, and leashed up Beckett for our morning run.

I used to really enjoy running before work. Mondays, Wednesday, Fridays, Beckett and I would get up and head out for 3-5 miles and be back in time for me to shower, get dressed, and still be only my typical 10 minutes late to work. As long as I could drag myself out of bed, it was a great way to start the day.

But then I broke my finger, tripping in the pre-dawn darkness. And then I got pregnant and wasn't running anymore. And then I had Eleanor and REALLY wasn't running anymore. Or walking the dog, or sleeping regular, or anything else that defines the parameters of a normal, balanced life.

Slowly over the past year, I've been reclaiming some normal activities. Sleep came first, because our wonderful daughter is a great sleeper. Then occasionally walking the dog, working part-time, and even the rare occasion of hanging out with friends or going on a date with Keith. Finally, in the past few weeks, I've been making much more of an effort to run regularly.

To be honest, it hasn't been working that well. My long runs on the weekend get bumped because of going out of town, camping, etc. And it's still hard to fit in the weekday runs, even being home all day on Wednesdays and Fridays. The problem, I've decided this week, is that Eleanor is still too young to really enjoy the running stroller. When she's awake, she wants to be on the move. She doesn't want to be kicked back, taking in the scenery. And I can only take her when she's very awake, otherwise she'll fall asleep for 15 minutes during the run and then refuse to take her nap at home, which should actually be 1-2 hours. Not good.

I decided this last Friday when, for the 3rd time in a row, she got fussy after 20 minutes in the running stroller. The other two times I managed to placate her enough to make it to the end of the run. But trying to sing "Short Skirt / Long Jacket" while powering up a hill is not my idea of a good time. On Friday, I just gave up and headed for home, very frustrated.

So, although I've been avoiding it for some time, I've finally come to the conclusion that, if I want to be certain of my weekday runs, I'll have to do them in the morning before she wakes up. This means getting out of bed by 5:30am. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but now that I've made that decision, I'm really excited about it.

I thought Beckett might be slow to catch on. I figured today I would have to roust his sleepy butt out of bed and shove him out the door, and maybe by Friday he'd be back into the swing of things. But he surprised me by hopping out of bed while I was brushing my teeth, and waiting for me at the back door when I came down the stairs. I think he missed our morning runs even more than I did!

The sky was just starting to lighten at the edges when we walked down the driveway and headed away from the house. I think I may have to steal Keith's headlamp to feel confident I won't have another spectacular wipe-out, as the days are only going to get shorter. But by the time we were home, the sky was light, I was tired but happy, and Beckett was ready for water and food.

I got a quick shower, since Eleanor was already talking to herself by the time I headed upstairs. I threw on some clothes and, for the first time in a long time, was ready to greet Eleanor cheerfully and happy that I already had my run in.

I think this is going to be a good thing. I had forgotten the difficulty of picking up a pile of steaming dog poop in the pre-dawn light. But other than that, I had a great time!

Dog Days of Summer

A few years ago, my family all met up at Findley State Park for a weekend of camping and relaxing.

Little did we know, we just happened to pick the one weekend per year that is the Dog Gone Campout, where everyone brings their furry friends and there's "games, crafts, and demonstrations geared to dogs." It was insanity. So many dogs everyone. And Beckett and his cousins, Scout and Bailey, had to bark at every single one that passed within 25 feet of our campsite.

We did partake in the games, running Beckett and Bailey through an obstacle course and letting them swim after a toy. And it was nice that the campground was filled with other dog-loving campers, so our canine's outbursts were very well tolerated. But even so, if I had to do it all over again, I think I would stay away from the park for that annual event.

Except, we went camping at Findley this past weekend .... and it somehow managed to collide with their Dog Gone Campout weekend AGAIN!! I'm not sure if we've even camped once at Findley since the last doggie extravaganza, and we just happen to pick that same weekend.

Beckett barked and strained so much at his chain that, after one night, he was hoarse. And then it started to rain. My sisters and brother-in-law had already left on Friday night. Keith and I were planning on leaving Saturday anyway, but with the dogs and the weather, my parents decided to join us, too.

We always enjoy sitting around the campfire and catching up, but this was not the most relaxing camping trip of all-time. When we got back home, I drank in the peace and quiet. For a few moments at least, until Beckett ran to the front window and barked at the dog walking on the far sidewalk, across the street.

Happy Birthday, Beckett!

Beckett also enjoyed Eleanor's birthday. We ended up taking all of the presents outside, so everyone could gather loosely around the deck and either watch Eleanor (me and Keith, for the most part) opening her presents, or play. After opening the presents, we brought out the cake and homemade ice cream and Eleanor's high chair and large bib for her first taste of cake.

Keith was getting Eleanor situated in the high chair and I started cutting up pieces of cake, to be served with the ice cream. Keith's cousin started making her way around the deck, taking orders. Plates with cake started lining the bench, patiently awaiting ice cream and distribution to party goers.

And Beckett saw his opportunity. He came up out of nowhere, grabbed an innocent piece of chocolate cake, and gobbled it right down. Before Eleanor or anyone else had even tasted the cake.

He was, as always, unrepentant. I guess I should just be glad that it was only a piece of cake, and he wasn't on top of the table eating the whole entire cake in one go. It's been known to happen!

She's a Neat Freak

Apparently, Eleanor has decided that my housekeeping isn't quite up-to-snuff. It's bad enough that Gomez usually appears from nowhere when I'm cleaning to watch. I feel as if she's been treated like royalty in all of her cat lives, perhaps starting as an Egyptian priestess's beloved companion. She doesn't understand what I'm doing when I get out a mop and a broom. She's never actually seen such a thing before‐these types of activities were always done quietly by domestics, when Her Highness was cat napping in the sunshine in another wing of the manor. So she watches me, fascinated, when I get down on my hands and knees to sweep up furry tumbleweeds or scrub spilled baby food off the floor.

Like I said, it's enough to have Gomez for an audience. But NOW I have Eleanor showing me how things are done! I got out the Swiffer the other day, and she decided to take matters into her own chubby little baby hands, and show me how to really get to the stuff in the corners. Obviously, she only worked for as long as it took me to get the hang of things, and then she was off to try and eat Beckett's dog food before Keith or I noticed. She has more important things to do than clean.

If Beckett starts giving me cleaning tips, I'll really have to worry!

A Wrench in the Plans

I sprained my ankle last Friday. So easy to do, kind of like breaking my finger. I've never been a very graceful person, and not being able to pay attention to where I'm walking only exacerbates this tendency to fall over.

This time, I took Beckett and Eleanor for a walk around the block during the afternoon. I had Eleanor strapped in the Baby Bjorn on my chest, limiting my visibility. The leash was in my left hand, and I was looking at Beckett on my left. My right foot stepped into a depression, and down I went.

Since I've been wearing an aircast all week, I've heard lots of others' stories about sprained ankles. Walking down a step, stepping out of a shoe .... it's a miracle it doesn't happen more often. Our ankles are very vulnerable, it seems!

As I twisted my ankle, I feel forward onto my left knee and hands. Eleanor fell forward in the Bjorn and started screaming; I had a heart-stopping moment of panic that her head actually smacked the sidewalk. Fortunately, she was just scared by the feeling of falling, and was unhurt.

I picked myself up and hobbled over to a few steps near the sidewalk to assess the damage. Beckett may drive me crazy in a LOT of ways, but sometimes he reminds me how he's a good dog at heart. This time, he wandered around after I dropped the leash, but stuck close by and came when I called him back over.

What was the luckiest break for all of us is that an amazingly good Samaritan saw me fall and came over from the other side of the street to make sure I was okay. She was a junior in high school and I couldn't believe how kind and helpful and compassionate she was. I was certainly not that mature in high school, I'm sure. She took Beckett and waited while I checked myself out for the extent of the damage. When I decided the ankle wasn't going to fall off if I walked the quarter-mile back home, she kept Beckett and walked him home for me, so I could concentrate just on staying upright. If it wasn't for her, I don't know how I would have made it home. You never want to be in the position where you need to lean on a stranger, but it was a wonderful feeling to know that people like her are still around .... and living close by!

I waited until Saturday morning to go to the Urgentcare, vainly hoping that it would feel all better in the morning. Of course it didn't, so Keith and Eleanor took me to the hospital because I wasn't sure if I could drive myself.

This was just another reminder that everything is different once you're a parent. On the way to the appointment, my biggest concern was that I hoped I didn't need crutches. How in the world would I manage that AND carry around Eleanor? Or get there just in the nick of time when she was about to fall/eat the dog's bone/etc.?

I laughed to myself when the doctor told me it was just a mild sprain, and I should rest and elevate the ankle for a few days and stay off it as much as I could. In my world, that means laying on the couch and icing it at 9 o'clock at night, after Eleanor is in bed. Or maybe one other time during the day, if I'm lucky.

Even with my lack of care, the ankle seems to be healing nicely. The swelling has gone down significantly and I have a lot more movement and very little pain. I'm supposed to wear the aircast continuously until tomorrow, and then I can start taking it off for short amounts of time and see how it feels.

My biggest concern going forward is that, although ankles heal, being a klutz is a permanent condition. Does this mean that I should never walk with the dog and Eleanor together again? Can I not be trusted to stay on my feet, despite distractions? If I can't do 3 things at once, then I'll never get anything done. I was so looking forward to getting out and walking more once the weather turned nice. It would be a shame if Beckett and Eleanor have to take their walks without me.

A True Gapesnest

Earlier this week, I wanted to get a run in. But now I always feel guilty if I take Eleanor out in the jogging stroller. Beckett gets so excited when he sees me lace up my running shoes ... and then so crestfallen when Eleanor and I leave and lock him in the house behind us.

So I decided, what the heck? I might as well try taking both of them and see what happens. I don't need to get a run in today, so if it doesn't go well, I'll just turn around and head back home.

It was a multi-step process to get on the road. First, I let Beckett out into the backyard and tossed his leash and harness by the gate. Then I put Eleanor in the pack n' play while I steered the jogging stroller outside and down the steps. Next I locked the back door, strapped Eleanor into the jogging stroller, and wrangled the dog into his harness.

Then I had to decide what to do with the leash. I figured me carrying it was out, because there was a good chance of getting an arm ripped off because I'm holding onto the stroller with one hand, and Beckett takes off in the opposite direction after a squirrel, taking my leash arm with him. In the end, I looped it around the stroller frame, near the front wheel.

Overall, it went much better than I expected. There were times when Beckett got distracted, and tried to cross over in front of the stroller to the other side, which necessitated a lot of "Beckett! Get back here! .... No, over here!" and detangling of leash and wheel. But it didn't happen as often as I had thought it would.

There were also times when we were just jogging along, Beckett in front, the jogging stroller a foot or so behind, and me with one hand on the jogging stroller. It was a beautiful thing.

At least, that's what I thought. The looks I got from passersby and lunching construction workers or landscapers, though, were a bit more incredulous. So that's what it feels like to be a Gapesnest! And I loved every minute of it.

Our Landscape Architect

We have many, many ideas of what we want to do as far as landscaping. And this time of year my mind always starts thinking up elaborate plans for front and back flower beds, a vegetable garden, fragrant herbs around the deck .... so many possibilities!

Unfortunately, our landscaping budget doesn't match our aspirations. Nor does our free time, actually. This means that, since Eleanor's birth, Beckett has been in charge of the backyard landscaping.

His vision involves lots of mud and dirt. No plants, and very little grass. The picture of him is from about a month after we moved in, when there was still grass. I'll have to take a picture now and you can see the changes. There's a big bald patch right next to the back porch, where he launches himself off, in hot pursuit of squirrels and rabbits. Then there's the dirt patrol path that winds around the perimeter fence, as well as curves next to the garden you see in the picture, on the side of the garage.

I'm just happy that we are finally cleaning up the mess the roofing and window contractors made last summer and fall. I've cleaned up bits of old roof, insulation, a 2-foot section of gutter, and a plethora of nails, all from the plants and garden beds around the house. I'm getting the sense that, this summer, the goal will be just to get the yard to "blank slate" status. Then, maybe next year, we can think about adding in some actual landscaping.

Is It Really That Hard? Carpet Cleaner

Lately, I've been spending a LOT more time than I would like (because any time is too much), on my hands and knees, scrubbing the carpet after another one of Beckett's messes. He's not very happy that I'm actually getting out of the house more now that the weather is nicer. Nor is he enamored of the fact that he's on a leash until the backyard gate is fixed and Houdini-proof.

So he poops on the carpet or digs up houseplants .... just whatever way he can show his displeasure with the humans. In a passive/aggressive doggy kind of way.

But anyway, here's my point: I'm trying to spray the carpet cleaner down onto a specific spot on the carpet. And it keeps clogging. It only works if you point it directly out in front of you; it doesn't work if you're pointing down. BUT IT'S CARPET CLEANER. Isn't "down" the whole point?!?

Also Consider It At Full Volume

Maybe you already know this. But when you're picking a name for a dog or a cat, I would suggest narrowing it down to your last few choices. Then get outside. Walk for at least 20 minutes, hollering the names at the top of your voice every few houses. Then see if you still like your chosen names.

Beckett escaped again last week. We'd had a carpenter out, installing handrails on our outside steps. He also tightened the screws on the gate and added a few more pieces of wood near the latch. "This will be like Fort Knox," he confidently told me, showing off his handiwork. "Your dog won't be able to escape without breaking the whole gate, and that's just not going to happen."

We let him have the run of the yard. Since it was actually a balmy day, we stayed outside for 10 or 15 minutes to make sure he didn't engage in any funny business. The carpenter left, and Keith and I went back inside to feed Eleanor and make dinner.

A while later, we realized we had left Beckett out in the yard. Except, of course, he wasn't. And was no where to be seen, so clearly he had been gone quite some time and had made good his escape. I was hoping to go for a run anyway, so I got changed and jogged off down the street.

"Beckett!" I called. "Beeeeckett!"

But calling out a name into the great wide open has a way of changing it. Unconsciously I started elongating the vowels to make the name last as long as possible, in the hopes that Beckett might catch the last syllable on a breeze and come running into my arms.

By the end of our road I was yelling, "Behhhhy-kit!" I felt like I had moved hundreds of miles South. The name sounded so strange coming out of my mouth, yet I was powerless to stop it.

A few times, I ran into walkers or joggers and asked them, in a conversational tone, to keep an eye out for a small black and white dog that is also the spawn of Satan. With brown eyes. Once, they asked what the dog's name was. "Beckett," I replied, but saying his name normally had become strange.

He did get found. On the plus side, we've met a lot of neighbors through his escapades. But if he keeps escaping, I'm renaming him John.

Ruff! Just Call Me Houdini

Ruff! Beckett here. It's been a few exciting weeks. The baby human is much more interactive these days. This is good because she shows excellent taste—she smiles and coos whenever I walk in the room. This is bad because she shows excellent taste—she's always trying to tug on my ears and fur.

To get some more attention, I've started a new Friday tradition of escaping. For the past three weeks, I've managed to get out of the backyard every Friday afternoon. Every time the parents think they've figured out how I got out, I find another way!

But just once a week wasn't enough anymore; I've gotten hungry for more freedom. The best was Wednesday morning. I escaped at 6:45 am, before it was even light out! It was pouring rain, everything was wet and muddy, and I squeezed through the closed gate in 2 minutes flat. Dad drove around the neighborhood (making him late for work), while Mom called from the back porch and walked a few houses down, but couldn't go too far because of the baby human.

I finally took pity on them and showed up at the back fence, barking and excited to be out on such a gorgeous day. I was covered in mud from head to tail and in the best mood. And yet, they weren't pleased. Mom made me take a shower and neither one of them would talk to me for the rest of the day. I don't think it helped my case that, while driving around looking for me, the car picked up a nail and when Dad went back out to the garage 15 minutes later, he could hear the air hissing out of the tire.

And yet, I can feel the itch to escape building. They think they have everything figured out, because they have me hooked up to a leash every time I go out. But it's only a matter of time before I escape that, too. Just this afternoon I snuck out through the gate but didn't get very far because I was still leashed to the porch. I'll figure it out, though. Tomorrow is Friday, after all ....

Family Christmas

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! I hope everyone enjoyed lovely holidays.

Our holidays were wonderful. We hosted Christmas Eve at our house for my family. Christmas morning was quiet and relaxed; probably one of our last Christmas mornings when we don't have to worry about assembling various toys, keeping Santa's gifts separate from our own, etc.

It felt like a real family Christmas. Eleanor wasn't that bothered about the whole thing, although she did enjoy getting new toys to play with (eat). Gomez is like the young child—she's up before anyone else, racing around the house. But again, that's her usual modus operandi.

Beckett is the teenager. He stayed under the covers as long as possible. After Eleanor's first feeding and once everyone else was up, we called for Beckett to join us downstairs. No response. I finally had to go into the bedroom and pull the covers off him before he would stretch and wander downstairs. I gave him a huge bone, said "Merry Christmas," and that was the last we saw of him all morning. The rest of the family gathered around the Christmas tree to open presents. Beckett disappeared to the other side of the living room to lay under the coffee table. We could hear sounds of gnawing and licking, but that was about it.

Christmas afternoon we went out to my parents' house. By this point we were learning what Eleanor's favorite part of present-opening was: the wrapping paper. She kept trying to eat it. Well, and every present we opened .... including a globe from my sister, which seemed fitting. What can I say? She knows what she wants and goes after it!

We had Christmas with Keith's family in Cincinnati over the following weekend, and New Year's Eve was a quiet night in, watching a movie and drinking a glass of wine.

The hardest part of the post-holiday letdown was Keith going back to work. He was off from the 24th through the week of New Year's, so Eleanor and I had gotten used to having him around all the time. I went through a mini-version of my first traumatic realization that I would be home alone with the baby all day long when she was about a month old and all of our wonderful helpers had to return to their usual lives.

But we made it through. And now the weather is frigid, inches of snow cover the ground, and there's a winter storm advisory for several more inches tonight/tomorrow. Ahhh, winter! I think I'll take a cue from Beckett and hide under the covers all weekend.

Lap of Luxury

My lap has been a busy place of late. Obviously, 90% of the time, Eleanor and I are hanging out. I'm soothing her, I'm bouncing her on my knee, she's standing on my legs. This is the majority of lap duty.

But the animals are also more interested in cuddling. I think they're jealous. I used to try my best to entice Gomez to sit in my lap and let me pet her, with very limited results. Once Keith even helped cover me in cat treats to try to get her attention. She never showed, but Beckett loved it.

Now Beckett has always liked cuddling together on the couch. He comes and curls up right next to you, maybe putting his head on your knee. He's not a big believer in personal space.

But both animals have upped their attentiveness. Whenever my lap is empty, they seize the opportunity. When I'm sitting at a computer, Gomez is usually curled up in my lap. (To be perfectly honest, she just left. But she had been sitting with me for about 15 minutes, I swear!) Beckett likes to join me when I'm baby-free on the couch or recliner. But it's not enough for him anymore to sit next to me. He now jumps into my lap, curls up, and rests his head on my arm.

I don't mind too much. It's nice to feel wanted. And it's nice to be holding someone who won't scream in my ear or tug on my hair.