not that you asked...

About the phone.

Sometimes it really sucks being so completely terrible at verbal communication.

It should come as no surprise to you that my preferred method of communication is the written word. That's not to say that I would rather exchange emails than go out to dinner or have a playdate with friends – only that if I cannot get together IN PERSON with someone, I would so much rather email or send a little “thinking about you” message on Facebook or hook up on IM or anything - ANYTHING - but picking up the phone.

I just don't like the phone. I am incapable of talking on the phone and doing something else at the same time (God help us all if I choose to answer the phone in the grocery store – we will have nothing but beans and salad dressing for dinner all week and WE DON'T EVEN LIKE BEANS all because I get so distracted and sweaty trying to talk and do something else at the same time) and I hate trying to have a conversation with someone with the kids interrupting me every six seconds. Complicating my phone situation is the fact that I only feel like I can answer the phone if it seems like the PERFECT TIME to receive a call – I want to give the caller my UNDIVIDED ATTENTION, so I have to be at home, with the kids very well occupied or asleep, and with nothing else to do but chat. So naturally, I end up never talking on the phone (DUH) which means that when I finally get around to making sure I connect with someone before they think I've fallen off the face of the earth or hate their guts, that it has been so long since we talked that I feel like I need to have a four-hour block of time set aside so we can catch up on everything, and that makes for a really high-pressure situation.

Every time I hang up the phone after talking to a long-distance friend, I try to remind myself to just call again a few days later. Call again, I think, call again and just have a quick “how are you?” conversation. Call and say you're thinking about her. Call frequently so that you don't lose touch; so that you feel like you live right next door instead of 800 miles away; so that you don't feel like you have to set aside a perfect, uninterrupted, four-hour block of time to catch up every six months. CALL HER, ALREADY.

But I never do. I hate that about myself. I feel sick and shameful when I think about it. Every year I make it my New Year's Resolution to learn how to maintain a healthy phone relationship with the people I love but never get to see face to face, and every year I totally suck at it.

Tonight Dave and I had a stressful night, and I yelled a bunch of stuff I didn't even MEAN, because I get so flustered when I can't work through things by writing them down. I want to be rational and quick thinking and make a concise, truthful point, but the reality is that I just blubber, and say whatever comes to mind, even if it's hurtful and mean. I am unable to sort through my thoughts like my husband does; even if he THINKS mean things about me, he rarely says them, because he has a brain that works like a REGULAR BRAIN and under pressure, my brain works like an Insult Machine. Is there anything that makes an argument worse than someone just lobbing insults at the other person? Because usually what happens is that I get all distracted and start talking trash and Dave throws up his hands and walks out of the room and then I end up shouting something like “OH FINE, JUST WALK OUT, THEN” as if he's not doing the kind, rational thing by NOT STICKING AROUND TO HEAR THE REST OF THE CRAZY.

Then I might (hypothetically) punch a wall in frustration, because I can't think on my feet; I need to OPEN A WORD DOCUMENT, PLEASE. And then my thumb might (hypothetically) turn purple.

I know, perspective, right? There are worse things than the Curse of Those Who Need Helvetica to Solve a Problem or Deal with Confrontation. It's not like Dave and I argue all the time; it's not like my friends don't appreciate it when I send them a long-winded email when I can't call. But I think about it a lot, because I find that it's a common trait among people who live their lives on the Internet in some way or another. We seem to unanimously hate the phone. We only carry cell phones so we can text photos or updates to Twitter and check our email. We work out our emotions in paragraphs instead of over drinks. We don't avoid people. We LIKE PEOPLE. We just communicate better on paper.

I can't decide if it's embarrassing or noble.

We interrupt this prolonged blog absence for a rant about wet changing tables and broken playgrounds. Ahem.

We took Asher to Six Flags America for his birthday. They built a Thomas Town there, and it is just as unbelievably ridiculous as you can imagine, not because it's crazy over the top or insanely expensive but just because we are talking TRAINS with TALKY FACES and CREEPY ROLLY EYES and I won't even mention the horrible excuse for music they use and yet, SOMEHOW, it all commands the attention and devoted allegiance of children ALL OVER THE WORLD. So naturally they built a pint-sized theme park and it's basically Disney World for kids like Asher who can manage to sit through an episode of Thomas and Friends that contains three different (sometimes totally pointless) stories and two brainteasers but who cannot fathom an hour and a half of ONE CONTINUOUS STORYLINE, WHAAAAAA?

We are going to go to Disney World and he is going to have zero idea about what anything is, because I can't get him to watch anything longer than the fire scene in Bambi. He loves the fire scene in Bambi.

Anyway, so he loved Thomas Town blah blah blah. (Not that we ever doubted he would.) We rode all the rides and swatted at bees and played at the enormous, awesome playground. Then we had lunch, and Lucy crapped her pants, as per her Must Fill Diaper Whenever Mama Raises Her First Bite To Her Lips agreement. So I took her to the restroom.

The restroom had only one changing table, and it was occupied. So we waited.

We waited, and I watched as a woman changed her soaking wet three-year-old on top of it. (There is a spray fountain in the Thomas Town section of the park.) The girl was standing up on top of the changing table while her mom stripped her down and put clothes back on her. Which, okay, I totally get it if you don't want to stand your kid on the ground when you're changing her if she doesn't have shoes on her feet. A public restroom in a theme park isn't the bathroom at the Ritz, I know, but I was kind of annoyed that we were waiting for a changing table that was occupied by a child who didn't have poop smeared all over her rear end. We were waiting for a kid who was CHANGING CLOTHES. Put SHOES on her and change her on the floor or something since she can STAND UP, FOR THE LOVE.

But I promise you, I was really probably only annoyed that I was hungry, and having to wait for what seemed like FOREVER while this kid finally got her clothes on.

EXCEPT THEN, the kid's mom took her sopping wet clothes and WRUNG THEM OUT ALL OVER THE FLOOR OF THE RESTROOM. We are not talking here about a LOCKER ROOM, with a DRAIN IN THE FLOOR. We are talking about a bathroom, in a theme park, that is nothing more than a public restroom except probably dirtier. She wrung buckets of water out of this kid's clothes, and then casually exited the bathroom with the kid tucked under her arm.

So do you know what I was treated to? I was treated to a floor under the changing table that had an inch of standing water underneath it, and a changing table that looked much the same. This woman thought for some reason that she wasn't responsible for her own mess, so she left ME to dry off the wet changing table myself, and stand in her kid's runoff in my flip flops. Kind of difficult to do when there are only automatic hand dryers and you have to use TOILET PAPER and when the floor underneath the table is so wet and slippery that you can't put your kid down without fearing she'd fall down and DROWN IN AN ENORMOUS PUDDLE.

I don't think I have to tell you that I was INCENSED. Who do these people think they are? I mean, COMMON COURTESY! I think the worst part was that I WAS STANDING RIGHT THERE. Waiting my turn. She KNEW that. I almost could understand (not EXCUSE, but understand) if no one had been in the room, and she'd done what she did and got away with it anonymously. I mean, it still would have been wrong and rude but to do it when someone is standing there, WAITING? It's like she took a marker and wrote “I AM SO MUCH BETTER THAN YOU” on the wall.

Likewise, we went to a favorite restaurant after church a couple of weeks ago and the playground adjacent to the restaurant was closed. It's a fenced-in playground, perfect for the preschooler age, and my kids love it. But the entrance gate was locked, and the fence had yellow CAUTION tape wrapped all the way around it, and there were traffic cones marking spots inside the playground where there were giant holes in the padded flooring.

So yes, holes in the flooring looked to be the only problems with the playground, as far as I could tell, but then again, who knows? There was no sign listing the exact problems they needed to fix before it could reopen. So you know what we told our kids? Sorry, Asher and Lucy. We know you want to play at the playground, but the gate is locked and there's tape around it telling us it's unsafe so the answer is no. And I'd say 90 percent of the other parents loitering around the area did the same. Sure, we were all disappointed. Maybe we were even a little irritated, because really? HOLES? Those holes are all that's preventing us from playing here? But at the same time, we all clearly understand the reasoning – lawsuit for a twisted or broken ankle, anyone?

Then I watched as several kids were lifted over the locked gate and security fence by their parents and encouraged to play in the playground anyway. I wanted to punch those parents in the face, I KID YOU NOT. I know what they saw: holes. I saw them too. Not such a big deal if you have older kids with good body control, right? Especially when there are traffic cones over the flooring flaws reminding you they exist?

But what I also see are people who think they are better – and more entitled - than everyone else. This goes beyond whether or not it was unsafe - it was disrespectful and self-righteous and a particularly bad example to set for their kids. These kids, who through this experience were basically told by their parents, “Eh, do what you WANT to do, not what you're SUPPOSED to do.”

I know, it's just a playground. It's just a changing table. But there's a part of me that wonders whether this might just the way the world is now. And MAN that's depressing.

(Although, you could totally cheer me up by sharing your own Obviously Crappy Parenting story, you know. If you were so inclined.)

It's going

Thank you, each and every last one of you, for your comments and your emails and your encouragement and your sympathy and your kindness.

Things are better this week. We are still sad; I think that goes without saying. But I can open the cabinet and discover a stray Milk-Bone without bursting into tears. I threw away the Pet Loss brochure. I vacuumed up the last of the pet hair in the bedroom, and it felt like such a betrayal that I'm almost ashamed to admit it. Now there's not even any evidence that he existed at all, I thought, watching the gray contents of the canister swirl in violent circles.

Right off the bat, I forced myself to do the hard things. I gave away his treats. Dave put away his toys and his bed. I wrote a thank you note to the kind people who took care of all of us at the vet's office. And then I took the kids out for a walk around the lake without him. It was almost a non-event the first time; the second time, though, I had no sooner gotten the kids situated in the stroller than Asher piped up with, “But where's B? We can't go on a walk without him!” and I had to recite my Hambone Was Too Sick To Come Back Home With Us, Remember? speech. I did that without too much difficulty, but then five minutes later we ran into a neighbor who asked where he was and I had to choke out, “He died on Sunday.”

That part really really sucked. I stopped wearing mascara altogether after that.

But in between the difficult patches, I see some comfort. I am thankful that the kids were too young to really understand what happened. I am thankful that the decision was so black and white. And while I would do almost anything to have him back, I know that's not something that's going to happen, so I am trying to appreciate that now we can go on walks without worrying that a strange child will try to pet him and he'll snap at them. I am trying to appreciate that the stairs aren't littered with little fur tumbleweeds and that there's more room in the laundry room without that giant bin of dog food sitting on top of the dryer and that I don't have to shove anyone outside with my foot to pee on rainy days.

Sometimes those things are nice, you know? But only sometimes. Small fractions of sometimes, really.

And in the midst of all the sadness and discombobulation and the misery, someone turned four.

We were happy about that. SEE YOU, THREE. Don't let the door hit you in the you-know-what on the way out.

Four. Wasn't he just born yesterday?

 

And could he (sometimes) BE ANY SWEETER TO HIS LITTLE SISTER? (Note: I was told I was not allowed to be in the room while he read books to her. Hence my filming from down the hall.)

In sickness and in health

On Saturday night Dave and I had a stupid argument fueled by exhaustion and hormones. We'd spent all day doing errands and chores, we'd taken the kids to IKEA way past their bedtimes, we'd gotten home late and hungry. I said that he didn't do enough nice things for me; he stormed off to the couch to avoid further confrontation. We both knew I was being ridiculous and unfair.

The next morning he did the kindest, most selfless thing he may have ever done for me, when he laid down on the dirty floor of the vet's office and gently cradled our dog as he quietly passed away.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't watch. I was an absolute wreck. And I know, I know, he didn't want to do it either, but he made the choice to protect and shelter me instead of giving into his own fears and hesitations.

I will never again say that my husband never does anything nice for me. Do I really need flowers? Or gifts? Those things would be graciously received and appreciated, yes. But what I really need – and what I shamefully always seem to forget I already have – is a husband who cherishes and loves me, and while he doesn't always say it the way I prefer to hear it, I must choose to just BELIEVE it. I must choose to see it.

I choose to see it in the way he loves his children. I choose to see it in his efforts at work. I choose to see it when he interacts with and enjoys my family.

And now I've seen that raw, powerful, protective love in a way I never wanted to see it. Does my husband do nice things for me? No. He goes beyond nice. He is kind and considerate and devoted and brave. He acts with integrity and he puts his wife before himself without fail. Without fail.

** ** ** **

The details are as such: We first took Hambone to see the vet only a week ago. He was yelping and whimpering and couldn't get comfortable enough to lie down without jumping up and yelping again. The vet said he thought it was probably muscular, that he needed to rest, and gave us a bunch of prescriptions that he said would start working within two days.

Except they never really did. Oh, there were times we must have fooled ourselves into thinking he was getting better, but he was always stiff and slow and in obvious pain despite the use of two painkillers and then on Sunday morning he couldn't even walk. He shook and trembled when he finally got upright and his front leg knuckled over and dragged behind him and he was so frightened that he peed on the carpet in the upstairs hallway and he has never – not even when we first got him – had an accident in the house. Dave rushed him to the emergency vet and called me a hand-wringing hour or two later with those five words that no one ever wants to hear from a medical professional: “There's nothing we can do.” Hambone had either a ruptured or slipped disc in his back. Surgery would be costly (more than $10,000) and the neurological workup to prepare for the surgery would probably set us back another $3k. All that, and there was no guarantee it would even work.

We got a second opinion from our regular vet, who took the time to speak to us even though he was not even on call that morning. He talked to Dave for a long time, and assured him that letting him go was the best decision. He understood that we didn't want our dog to be in pain, and as a father of two little kids himself, he understood what $13,000 means to a young family.

I met Dave at our vet's office a half-hour later, puffy-eyed and distraught. Hambone was nothing but a memory by noon.

** ** ** **

What is there to write about losing a pet? Hambone was the most wonderful, patient, fantastic dog, and that's putting it mildly. It is going to take a long time for us to heal. I could tell you a million sweet stories, relay a thousand cute anecdotes, but I'd never be able to communicate how fond we were of him; how much we adored him. Maybe the worst thing was the suddenness - how we went to bed one night thinking he would surely get better, and not twelve hours later we found ourselves signing a form for a group cremation and accepting a pamphlet on how to talk to children about death. I do miss him something fierce. He was my buddy, my constant companion, my shadow. He loved us, he devoted himself to us, and we loved him so so much in return. And that's all I can really say right now. I'm not ready to delve into the memories when the ache and emptiness of losing him is so fresh.

** ** ** **

There are things I do want to remember about the day we lost him. I want to remember how his warm body felt against mine when I curled up against him on that hard clinic floor. I want to remember how soft his fur was, how his snout smelled clean and familiar when I kissed it. I want to remember that he was surrounded by people who were treating him – and us – with the utmost respect and care. I want to remember that we made the right decision to end his suffering.

And I want to remember how, in his death, I was given an opportunity to grow as a wife. To watch as my husband did something beautiful and courageous as a gesture of love to me. I will never forget that gesture of protection and genuine love, as long as I live, though my heart breaks with the knowledge that I had to learn it like this.