Big Puppy, Small Problems

My dog is growing at the speed of light. Or at least, that's what I'm told. I don't really notice it. It's rather like how your children grow bigger and bigger but you're deep in the minutiae of parenting and too close to the growth to see it until suddenly their pants are at their knees and distant relatives are commenting on how grown up your babies are? 

It's like that. Only pant-less and with more UPS drivers refusing to get out of their vehicles to bring you your parcel so instead they honk their horn until you come out and reassure them that the beast sitting on the deck barking at them isn't in fact, a hound from hell. 

I took Abbott to the vet last week for his six-month check up and the vet just about choked when he saw the numbers on the scale Abbott was sitting on.

150.5 pounds.

He looked at his chart and noted Abbott's age and then looked at me and then looked at my dog and he started to laugh.

I think he was laughing AT me and not with me. So my dog is bigger than me. I'm still totally the boss of him. 

Maybe.

I admit, I couldn't see his size. I mean, I know how LITTLE he is compared to his relatives. He's just a baby. My baby. My wee small pony-sized beastie who still has a lot of growing to do. He's not big. He's too small to be big.

And then yesterday I realized I was eye level with my dog as I was working at my computer.

Suddenly, I'm all holy crappers, my dog got BIG and "Do you mind? That is my coffee. Please keep your tongue out of it," and I can't even move my cup further away from him because he can reach everything. Anywhere. 

I'm going to need a taller table or a shorter dog.

Mom, I want to go outside and play.

Mom, I really think you should get off the computer and come play outside with me.

Mom. Come. PLAY.

Good Mom.

*thanks for sticking around in my absence. I'll tell you about that tomorrow. Right now I have to go throw a stick before my overgrown toddler dog decides to take away my laptop.*

Blogging Bravely

I've written a blog post every day this week and deleted all but one of them.

I've written about the public breakdown I had after Knox's wheelchair collapsed in the middle of the street and no one offered to help me fix it. I've written about how some arsehole didn't hold the door open as he walked through it and it almost broke Knox's feet when the door slammed on him.

I wrote about blogging conferences and professional jealousies.

I wrote about tax season.

I just wrote a post about how the school phoned wanting my email so the principal could email me. How I have sat here for hours now, refreshing my email all the while imagining horrible scenarios involving my children and how I'm going to be forced to homeschool them like it or not. And still, NO EMAIL. The curiosity, it's killing me.

Everything I write, I delete.

I don't know how to press publish anymore.

It feels like everything worthy of being said is being said by others and being said better than I ever could. 

I'm blog-blocking myself. 

It's like I've forgotten how to blog honestly, the way I used to, because I'm paralysed by who will read it.

Years of being judged by my inlaws, my community, even some of my family, it's all scarred me to the point I don't know how to say what I want to say anymore. 

Blogging comes with a price. You may not have to pay it immediately, but it's there. I've paid my price, had my pound of flesh cut from my body. I've forgotten how to blog bravely.

But I still want to.

I'm still here. 

Blogging and deleting. Struggling to find the right way to write the words that I need to say. Bravely sharing big important truthes we will all be better for having read.

That's the problem. 

I have no big important truth to share. 

Not today anyways.

Oh wait. I have one truth to share:

Big dogs take big poops and I hate picking up poop.

Wait. That's not it.

My toe hair is so long it catches on my sheets and pulls a bit and it hurts. I don't want to be the woman who has to shave her toe hair. How feminine is that?

Sorry. That's not it either.

There is a dead skunk just on the other side of the road from my driveway and I really kind of want to poke at it with a stick.

That's just gross. I think there must be something wrong with me.

Oh, I know! 

I LOVE going to the local car wash. It's one of those wand wash places where you blast the dirt off your car manually. I feel like a GOD when I am blasting my car clean. I feel productive. Strong. And slightly gritty because I haven't quite figured out the right ratio from car to wand distance. Blow back is a bitch. BUT SO FUN.

I should delete this post. It's random and uninteresting.

Wait. It's kind of like life. Nonsensical but with a lot of blow back.

Starts blog post about the therapeutic brilliance of personal blogging.

Deletes said post.

Meh. You can't hit a home run every time you swing at a ball. At least now you know why I don't publish more often. You're welcome.

Art is Pain

I spent the day in a high school auditorium yesterday watching one act plays while wishing for a merciful death.

It wasn't exactly how I thought I'd be spending my time.

When I agreed to attend the festival I told myself this was a chance to relive my glory days as a theatre geek while celebrating my daughter's triumphs in her drama program.  

I was wrong.

I should have realized some memories are shinier when they are coated in dust and haven't seen the glare of daylight in years.

As I took a seat at the end of a row, I ignored the kids around me who all looked vaguely horrified to have their space intruded on by an 'old' person. 

I'm young. I'm hip. I am not the oldest person in this room, I told myself as I nervously twirled my chin whisker. 

I was the oldest person in my row but whatever. My brother-in-law sat right behind me and he's like a decade older. 

Then the house lights dimmed and the adjudicator took the stage, welcomed the audience and introduced the first play.

It was the play my daughter and niece were in! 

I was so excited.

There's my niece! She looks great! 

Ha ha! This play is so funny!

A kid in a wheelchair playing a zany grandmother!

Oh! There's Ken! Holy cow. Her cheek bones are so sharp she could cut glass with them.

She's a twin! Um she's a little creepy.

Holy cow, I may have nightmares over my creepy kid. Thanks Ken.

HAHA. FUNNY NIECE.

Wait, what? Oh! I GET IT.

HAHAHAH.

Oh, that's a little dark. 

Suicide jokes. Bomb shelters. Starvation. Woah.

Oh! But there's a game of charades and someone is eating kleenex! I'll laugh!

Wow my kid does creepy evil twin really well. Weird.

It's over? That's how it ended? Really? Who cares! Well done kids! Applause! That's right. Take your bow! It was a dark subject with a tough theme and you made it awesome. Suck on that one act festival! My kids rock! 

The house lights came on and the adjudicator walked out and introduced the next one act. 

The lights dimmed.

Please don't be more awesome than my kid's play.

A smaller cast. My girls were way cuter. 

Oh, they're singing.

What? This makes no sense.

Oh no.

Oh crap. 

Seriously? A one act play about the guilt a mother feels when her kid suddenly dies? Are you freaking kidding me?

Wow. They're good. 

I mean, I think they're good. I'm all conflicted and reliving the guilt and horror of when my kid died. THIS IS NOT FUN.

First a play about being locked in a bomb shelter and starving to death and now this?

What the hell is wrong with kids these days?

I want to look away but dang, those kids are really good.

I hate this play but wow.

Could this get any bleaker?

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

Oh thank God. It's over.

I will conceed they were really good. But my daughter and niece were way cuter. Who would have thought bomb shelter insanity was funnier than a child's sudden death.

HAHAH. Twitch.

Oh, here we go. There's the adjudicator. Last play of the afternoon. This is it. 

Clever set. I like it. 

Whoever that kid is playing the soldier, he totally reminds me of my brother.

No.

NOOO.

What is wrong with kids these days? Another play about death?

THEY ARE CANNIBALS?

OHMYGODHEISEATINGPEOPLEMEAT.

Is that? Are you kidding me? A BABY? In a BOX? 

I can't take much more of this dystopian post apocalyptic themed play.

DONT EAT THE MEAT.

I have to pee. 

SHE IS STABBING HIM TO DEATH WITH A RUBBER KNIFE.

Crap. I can't leave. My kid's teacher will see me walk out if I do.

This couldn't get any bleaker if they tried.

ANOTHER BABY IN A BOX?

WHY ARE TEENAGERS THESE DAYS SO DARK AND ANGSTY?

This is all Justin Bieber's fault.

I think it's ending. 

Please be ending.

Oh thank the baby jeebus, it's over.

WHAT? FAKE ENDING? IT ISN'T OVER?

NOOOOOO.

I don't know if I can hold my old lady bladder for much longer.

I will clap the hardest and cheer the loudest if this will just end.

My brother-in-law just finger shot himself in the head. Good to know it's not just me. THIS PLAY IS UNENDING.

It's done! It's done!

I can totally clap and cheer as I waddle to the bathroom. It's not rude.

Oh no. The adjudicator. I forgot about him. I can hold it a few minutes more. I want to hear what he has to say about my kid.

No! Don't do reverse order! GAH.

Yes yes. They were all dark themed and dramatic.

Yes they were exceptional actors, blah blah blah.

WHO CARES ABOUT THE TECHIES! Sorry techies, I don't mean that. I just really have to pee.

Pay attention Tanis, he's talking about your kid's play now.

Oh! He liked the twins! He liked her! He really liked her.

That's it? He prattles on and on about the other plays and that's all he says about my kid's play?

Lame. Merciful gods, he's done.

Yes, yes, cheers and applause. Move kid! OLD LADY BLADDER EMERGENCY!

THERE IS NO TOILET PAPER IN THIS STALL.

I am stuck in high school hell.

I am too old for this. 

I hate one act play festivals. How did I ever think this was fun?

What? That's it? No more plays for the afternoon? I can leave?

FREEDOM.

Some high school experiences are best left trapped in the boxes of your memory. Much like those poor soon-to-be cannibalized babies on stage.