Van 3 - Me 0

A few weeks ago the hubby’s car committed suicide on the side of I-70 in a rather spectacular fashion. I’ll spare you the gory details, but needless to say there was no chance in hell of resurrecting it. Needless to say this prompted a rather frantic and hurried search for a new mode of transportation.
Now, as many know, we have a few added passengers to our traveling list. This brought about the decision as to the type of vehicle we would need. Something that could hold both of us, two dogs, and a baby or two – not to mention all the equipment that comes with such a brood. Add to this mix the question of pricing and gas mileage and toss what was available for purchase at that moment, and we ended up with 2options – an suv or a van. Needless to say, gas mileage won out and a van won the toss up.
After jumping through various hoops and running several obstacle courses, a van was purchased. Now, for the majority of my driving life, I have driven a stick shift while the hubby is an automatic man. Because of the driving logistics, we found ourselves switching vehicles. My beloved truck was now going to be driven by the hubby and I would drive the van. Out of the two of us, everyone thought it would be the hubby that would have the biggest adjustment. Reality thought otherwise…
First off, this van has more bells, buttons and whistles than I ever thought possible for one vehicle to carry. Let’s start with the parking brake. In the truck (and several other of my vehicles), the parking brake release was located under the dash on the driver’s side. For whatever reason, I always set my parking brake…its a habit that was formed long, long ago. The first morning I drove off to work at 5:30. I noticed that I was going to need gas so I did the expected thing and stopped for gas. Now at 5:30 in the morning, there are not many people out and about at gas stations. As it happened, the little clerk was in her box counting out her cash till. I pulled up, congratulating myself on the fact that I had figured out where the gas tank was so early in the morning, leaped out of the van and went to reach for my purse which would normally be on the seat next to me. Ah, but not this morning. Apparently when I loaded up the van, I had left my purse in the seat behind the driver’s seat.
Let’s back up a bit. This particular van happens to have doors on both sides, not just the passenger side. And this van happens to have a remote which will operate both doors, along with various buttons inside. Being a smart woman, I hit the little remote to open the side door. It worked beautifully only I had the remote upside down and managed to open the door on the other side. Realizing my mistake I ‘closed’ said door and managed to open the correct door without much problem. Grabbing my wallet, I proceeded to swipe my card and select the proper gas. Tossing the card back into my purse, which I tossed back into the van, I turned to pump the gas only to find that there was no gas tank. What the hell? I knew it was on the driver’s side. After walking around the entire van twice (yeah – I know), it suddenly dawned on me…the side door was still open. Taking a risk, I closed the door and sure enough, there was the elusive gas cap. Sheepishly I managed to pump the gas with what little dignity I had left.
Gas tank finally filled, all doors finally closed and me in the driver’s seat, I started up the van and prepared to head off to work. Just before I drove off, I automatically reached down and pulled the parking brake release…only to pop open my hood. Yep, in the van the hood release is located where the parking brake release had been in my other cars. By this time the clerk was paying attention to me from her safe little box. She watched without expression as I leaped out of the van, slammed down the hood, leaped back in the van and promptly DID THE SAME THING AGAIN. Once again I ran out to shut my hood only this time I was successful in my endeavor. I managed to drive off without anymore incident. I did look back to see the girl giggling. I can’t blame her, I was doing the same thing.
I finally managed to get the parking brake/hood release thing under control (well at least I do most days). The next hurdle was those freaking doors. I constantly find myself opening or closing the wrong door. Luckily they have some kind of safety thing on them where they will stop automatically if they sense something in the doorway. Otherwise my poor husband would be in serious trouble. I am constantly closing the door on him while he is getting the midget out of the car seat. I would blame the remote but there happen to be a set of buttons up high in the front. Apparently I can’t work those either. Just about the time I thought I had all the buttons figured out, the van shows me otherwise. I went to work one morning, again it was early. I grabbed my stuff out of the van and carefully locked it up with the remote as I headed inside the building. About a half an hour later, one of my co-workers comes waltzing in and asks me “Did you know both of your side doors were open? I closed them for you.” Dumbfounded does not cover my reaction. Yep, I had very carefully managed to open both doors instead of locking up the van.
I would like to say I have learned my lesson and finally got it under control when it comes to the van, but that would not be entirely true. I can say that I have so far managed to not hit the imaginary clutch or driven off with any doors, including the back hatch, open. However I fully expect any day to find myself driving along and ejecting all passengers with one push of a button. I’m just not sure which button that is ….yet.

Oh the Joys of the Foster Care System...

All I can say is "WOW!"
No matter how much you think you can handle anything, nothing, and I mean nothing prepares you for the actuallity of being part of the foster care system.
Life with D is wonderful, exciting, fascinating, depressing, infuriating and frustrating. I suppose that could be said of life with any child. Add in the extra benefits of having a caseworker, a CASA guardian, a Guardian ad litem, a licensing worker, a States Attorney and a Federal court Judge watching everything you do. Everything is documented, everything must be approved, everything has to be monitored, down to the simplest task.
You go into the situation with good intentions. You tell yourself that "Mom and Dad" are a actually good people. You tell yourself that they are just a couple of young kids who did something stupid because they were inexperienced, uninformed, or just had a moment of stupidity. You tell yourself that you are here to help. A child should be with its birthparents. everyone deserves a second chance. Then you find out the real story...
Now I am not one of those sheltered, naive, 'innocent' people who has no idea that reality is not always pretty. I have seen, heard, done, read enough to know that not everyone is 'good' and that there are some very bad people out there. But even so, I find it hard to believe that someone could be mean to a child. Especially when that child looks at them with nothing but complete and total love and trust. Oh sure, I know it happens, but to come to know it in person is still a little hard to take.
Coming face to face with D's parents was a sad reality. Yes, they were a couple of kids. Their concept of the gravity of the situation that they are in is almost a joke. 'Mom' is in the mindset of "you can't tell me what to do" and who knows what "Dad" is thinking. D has been in the system since he was 12 days old. He will be 14 months at the end of this month. The so called parents are just now realizing that this is serious. It is kind of sad to watch them scramble around, trying to rectify things in a few months that they should have been working on for a year now.
I think that they really do have some tiny bit of feeling for the child they brought into the world. I have to think that otherwise they would be total incompetent monsters not worthy of any space. No such creatures could produce something so innocent and pure as the little boy who has come into our lives. And yet these fine upstanding pillars of the community refuse to participate in any attempt to regain their child. Trying to get out of random drug tests, missing visitations or cutting them short for the weakest of reasons, not appearing at substance abuse or anger management counciling and missing reviews does not show good faith efforts. And yet they both seem to think that there is no way that anyone would continue to keep their child from them. Simply amazing...
So forgive me when I say that I no longer believe these two are poor misunderstood kids who got a raw deal. These two are morons. Their combined IQ may be that of a blade of grass, if they are lucky. They have no idea of the gift they were given in their little boy. They don't seem to care that people are trying to help them. Only that they are the ones who have been 'wronged'. Like I said, idiots.
And so we try to take the place that these two should have had in 's life. If we are lucky, he will get to stay with us, and his 'parents' will just be a couple of people he spent time with now and then. If we are lucky, he will have a long and happy life, surrounded by people who love and care for him. Those people don't even have to be us, although I would hope that we are the ones who get that chance. At any rate, even with all the hoops and theatrics and micromanaging and observations, we are the lucky ones.
So even though I no longer have the illusion that his parents are good people who just happened to have a bad moment, I can't help but feel sorry for them. If they are too ignorant to realize what they had, then I don't think they ever will.

A Little Change...

I got bored and decided to have an 11 month old baby...
Ok, so it really didn't happen quite that way. The hubby and are foster parents. Last month they called and asked us to take in a little boy. Stupidly we said 'Sure'. And they believed us!
The caseworker dropped him off at 4 pm on a Thursday, handed me a few garbage bags of clothes, some toys and a couple of car seats. Then he left. The kid and I just kind of stared at each other, both with the same 'now what?' look on our faces.
Now, I am not a fool. I know babies don't come with instruction manuals or care labels. But seriously? To have someone just drop off a kid and leave without any kind of hint as a suggestion or two? Needless to say the kid quickly learned that we are total morons and it is up to him to whip us into shape.
Overall, he is a pretty easy going baby. It didn't take him long to teach us the 3 rules of baby. Food, sleep and diaper. Those are the main mantras of our daily lives now. If it isn't one, then it is one of the other two. It only took us two weeks to get a routine down that he thinks is acceptable. I figure he will change the rules on us next week. We are so screwed...
The first question everyone asks is "are you going to adopt him?" Yes, if it becomes an option then we will certainly adopt him. We just don't know if that is going to be an option yet, and probably won't for awhile.
The second question everyone asks is "How can you do this? How can you give him up?"
That' s a toughie. We have actually had a newborn foster child. We didn't have him long and knew right from the start that we weren't going to be keeping him. That was easy to handle since we looked at it like it was a babysitting job. This one will be a little bit different. Who am I kidding, it will be a lot different. I tell myself that it is just an extended babysitting gig, and I think in the beginning I really believed that. But as each day passes, the babysitting gig slowly fades into the background and he becomes more and more a part of us.
The hardest part of all of this is the not knowing. Not knowing how long he will stay. Not knowing if he will go back home. Not knowing if he will get to stay with us. Not knowing how long we will not know anything. Because we don't know, we don't think in terms of the future. I bought a shirt for him for St. Patrick's day. I even had a thought of a small cake for his birthday at the end of the month. But nothing farther than that. All because we just don't know.
And so we go on, not knowing. It sucks, I won't lie. And to be honest I am not sure if we would do this again should he go back home. But for now, he is here.
I wouldn't change that for anything.

*I apparently never actually posted this. I blame the ice! Last Tuesday we were hit by a rather nasty ice storm. They were predicting that it had the potential to be as bad as the one in 1979, which I happen to remember thank you very much. Didn't get as much snow as predicted but got enough ice to keep us home for almost a week. We were one of the lucky ones that didn't loose power (for very long) and thankfully we had been to the grocery store so were ok on the food supplies. I am not graceful in the snow. I happen to look like some strange penguin waddling carefully about in the snow. I expect to slip and fall. I don't like it, but it is a fact of life, so I tend to be prepared for it. Now, we have dogs. We walk our dogs on leashes before we go to bed for the night - mainly because neither of us wants to be standing outside for hours on end waiting for the dogs to finally decide that they hear us calling them. Tuesday evening was no different from any other evening...the dogs needed to go out. I am not a stupid woman. I knew that there would be ice on our deck, and that said ice would be on the stairs. I also knew that dogs on leashes while walking on ice covered stairs could possibly be a bad bad thing. The hubby took Pinkerton, the bigger of the two dogs and carefully made his way down the steps where they stopped and waited patiently in the herb garden for Lucy and I. Lucy is a small beagle/bassett mix, about 7 months old, and full of energy. Lucy decided she was not crazy about ice. I carefully followed along as she skittered about on the ice covered deck. Then Lucy met the stairs. Not good. Lucy kind of skittered, slipped, and splat her way down the steps. In my zeal to 'save' her, I came to the realization that I too was about to perform my own 'splat'. In an attempt to 'save' myself, I decided to sit down on the step. Bad bad move. I remember sitting down. I remember thinking 'oh shit'. I remember the world suddenly spinning. I remember thinking 'oh shit, that hurt.' Somewhere in the midst of all this I heard the hubby yelling 'Watch your head!' as the world spun around a few more times. Next thing I knew, I was in the middle of the yard on my back thinking 'wow, that was cool' followed by 'ow ow ow f#&k ow'. Then I started laughing. It is extremely hard to get up off one's backside when one is laughing on ice. I realized that the hubby and both dogs were looking down at me with great interest. "Are you ok?" asked the hubby. (The dogs were trying to figure out if this was some kind of new game, and if so were there any treats involved.) "Yes, I'm fine." I giggled. After some effort we managed to get me upright and continued on with our evening 'constitutional'. I am happy to say I only landed on my ass 3 more times that evening. I'd like to say that I managed to remain nimble and on my feet for the rest of the week, but alas that is not so. I have fallen every freakin' time we have taken the dogs out. Leash or no leash. I think from now on I may just roll around in the snow when taking the dogs out. It might be safer. The hubby thinks I will just roll into a tree. Damn him, he is probably right.

The Morning Ritual...

Every morning is the same routine. The alarm clock goes off with its annoyingly cheerful beep. This causes a great deal of stirring in the covers. Various arms and legs move about in hopes that one appendage or another will make contact with the snooze button. Mercifully it does. This allows everyone the luxury of pretending that it was all a horrible dream, and the peaceful cocoon of sleep remains intact. Unfortunately, the illusion is just that, an illusion. Again the dreaded alarm beeps away. More stirring. More waving of appendages. More snooze button. After about three or four more times, the illusion is shattered.
By this time, it has become clear to all of the furry quadrupeds in the house that soon, very soon, food will fall from the sky. It begins with that dreaded alarm, followed by the peering of a face from out beneath the covers. Yes, out and food become the morning mantra to small animals everywhere. The dog takes this moment to wave his arms frantically. It seems to be sending the message that If I don't get out soon I will explode here in a ball of fur and shit! Movement from the bed is emanate. Now the cats leap forward. Time for the morning obstacle course. Oh, to make it out of the bed and into the bathroom just once, without the constant meowing throwing of little fuzzy bodies under ones feet! Paradise takes many forms.
Now it is too the stairs. Arms, legs and furry tails tumble together in one giant heap to the bottom of the stairs. The meowing is louder, the dog more frantic. Shoes, where are those damn shoes! A coat, mittens, and yes, finally the dog leash. Back! Back, Damn Cat! Finally, outside. One can still hear the muffled cries of furious cats while they beat their tiny furry fists upon the door. Oh the injustice of it all.
Now begins the mad dash down the street to an open field, any open field. This tiny twelve pound dog somehow manages to literally drag a full grown woman down the street. The sun is blinding, and sleep has not yet fully removed itself from her personage.
The dog dances about, desperate for relief. Unleashmeunleashmnpleasepleaseplease! he seems to mutter rapidly. Zoom! He is off. Slowly it begins to dawn on her that damn, its really cold out here. The dog pays no heed. He is looking for that perfect blade of grass, the best trampled spot, the most odiferous area in which to honor with his gift to the land. After what seems like an agonizingly long time, his morning duty is done, and he can now look forward to .... (gasp! dare I utter the word?!?) BREAKFAST.
Another stumble back towards the house, watch out for the light pole. Upon reaching the front door, the cats verbal abuse continues. The dog speeds through the two cats, sending them flying in tandem balls of fluff. Another obstacle course to the kitchen. One cat leaps to the table, and proceeds to smack the head of the provider as she reaches for food dishes on the floor. The other cat races to the laundry room, making an ill fated attempt to jump up on the washer. The gentle Bong rings loud and clear. The second attempt is successful.
While all of this is occurring, the dog sits patiently, staring intently. It is obvious that he is trying to use mental telepathy to inform the provider to hurry, drop something, anything. I will save you from any food that may have gone bad he seems to say. He has only her best interest in mind. Finally food is delivered to the gaping mouths.
For a moment, all that is heard is the sound of much snarfling and snuffling. Breakfast is done, nap time has begun. The morning ritual is complete.

All Dogs Fly...

The question came up, Do dogs fly? A silly question to say the least. Of course they do. All cats speak French, and all dogs fly. There is a commercial on the television that announces this fact. A dog is riding in the car. The voice over, clearly from the dogs view point, says the he (the dog) will always be happy as long as you (the driver) remember to roll down the window so he can pretend to fly. There you have it.
It is not so much as the dog actually takes flight. For him, it is enough to pretend. His mind creates a more fantastic flight than anyone could ever possibly achieve. Any little thing that can help this wondrous illusion along is just the icing on the top. I learned this from my own dog. Nero was not a fancy high profile kind of dog. Most of the time he spent just bumbling along. And he was happy to do so. A sweet natured dog. In his eyes, everyone was his friend. It was from him that I was fortunate enough to learn many secrets. Flying was just one of them.
For him, flying did not have to take place in a car. If he ran fast enough, his ears would flap about, and the air currents would do the rest. He loved to fly outside. He even tried to convince the butterflies that he was one of them. I think they actually believed him. Naturally they were to polite to comment on his lack of gracefulness, but they accepted him as he was.
Floating was another. One of his favorite things to do was to flip over onto his back. There he would be, upside down, feet in the air, tail stretched out. He would use his tail as a rudder. With it he could float in any direction. Sometimes, he would fall asleep while floating. You would hear the soft snoring which echoed the gentle burble of his stream. It made you want to join him.
Eventually, Nero found a companion with whom he could fly and float with. He found Archie, a small dog who had obviously had a rough start in life. Archie was unaware that he could float, let alone fly, so Nero took it upon himself to let Archie know that such things were possible. After sometime, Archie realized that it was perfectly acceptable for him to fly, and together he and Nero would spend hours doing just that.
In time we lost Nero, way too soon. Fortunately for us, he found us another dog to love and care for, one who needed us as much as we needed him. And thanks to Nero, we all can fly, just a little bit.

___________________________________________
Note: This was originally written in 2001. Nero died of Lymphoma April 9, 2001.

Chain Letters...

Periodically, like so many of you, I will receive one of those lovely little items we so fondly call "Chain Letters". I recently received one of these little beauties (in the form of an email) from a kind and loving friend. Here is my response...


You are in your car driving home. Thoughts wander to that chain letter sent to you from some friend who secretly thinks you are a tool but can't tell you to your face so their only option it so torment you with that chain letter promising you wondrous things if you forward it to everyone you know as well as everyone you don't know.You have now become the victim of endless emails vowing to hunt you down for passing on such drivel. Because of you, your neighbor, who refused to pass on that chain email, has been sucked into the sewer pipe and eaten by alligators. Because of you, little Sally down the street was swarmed by Arabs who thought they could get a good price. Because of you, Aunt Ethel has been devastated because Uncle Wilbur has left and joined that cult where he gets to run around naked, waving his wing-wang at passing cars in hopes of collecting enough spare change to buy a bag of Smarties. Because of you, the clouds parted but only to allow lightening to strike that nice bag lady, who in turn let go of her shopping cart which ran into your car right after you got it back from the repo-guy because your husband used the car payment money for that stripper he is putting through college so that she can support him in the style of which he wishes to be accustomed. Because of you your daughter is now working several street corners whenever she is healed enough from the beating her pimp gave her for not sharing her "tips" from those "special" guests she spent the weekend entertaining at the local Elks club, even though she knew the local Moose lodge paid better. Because of you your son only has to go to 4 pawn shops to sell your jewelry in hopes of scrounging up enough cash for his next 'fix' since his 'need' has grown from when your sister started him on the 'good stuff' but then cut him back to the 's*&t' since he couldn't pay her enough to cover those bets she made and now her bookie is looking to collect. Because of you, your mother will be fighting the cat for the left over cat food bits that even the dog won't touch, while your father just received the maximum penalty for that little racketeering bit that put him in the pokey since he was too stupid to use an alias instead of his real name and address. Because of you, an entire town has had to disband since they can't afford to keep any of their businesses open, and all the illegal activities just aren't paying what they used too. Because of you, I can't even get welfare since all those townsfolk who lost their jobs due to the failing economy all went on welfare and now there is nothing left for me and my 15 starving children who ain't got no daddy since he was killed in that freak accident where the toilet seat fell out of the sky from that space shuttle that blew up throwing our entire nation into deep suicidal mourning.
But hey, what do you care...you sender of chain letters. You sent yours out. And I just bet you got a call...but you didn't answer it did you? Because if you had, you would have known that I have just signed you up to receive every piece of porn in the world. You would have known that every charity is coming to your door to collect on those donations that I said you would make. You would have known that you are now housing several ex-convicts in your home as I signed you up to be a halfway house. You would have known that I made arrangements for the local dump to use your swimming pool for the extra trash that keeps creeping out of the local landfill. You would have known that I posted your phone number and address on every website in the world. You would have known that I also sent that information to every weirdo schizoid dorky dude looking for that 'someone special' to hook up with for those 'long walks on the beach' and 'romantic dinners'.
So...if you ever send me another freakin' chain letter (email, snail mail, what ever), I will personally put a curse on you that will last until the end of time...and believe me, part of that curse will be that you survive until the end of time...
Please be sure to forward this on to everyone you can possibly think of...I would hate for anyone to miss out.
Thank you!
Have a good day.

Whatever Happened to Whimsy?

When I was little, my world was filled with imagination and wonder. My parents encouraged and even participated in the illusion. I was read stories, sang made up songs, and all the magic and wonder I could ever hope for were available at my finger tips. I never questioned the existence of faeries, dragons, trolls, talking stuffed animals and other creatures created by my parents. Why should I? I had proof. My father once drew me a picture of a run-of-the-mill Galumpus, a snazzily dressed creature that hung in my room. There was an Ogengoblin too, but sadly I don’t remember him. Yard gnomes frolicked in the yard while basement trolls paroled the grounds while we slept. I had tea parties and long conversations with the wide variety of stuffed animals and was taught to listen carefully for the whispers of creatures in the woods. I learned that I was a ballerina, a super hero, a poor but valiant orphan, a princess, a ruler of the universe, what ever I wanted. I recently spent an afternoon with the son of a friend. She had things to do and asked if we could take him for a bit. We were headed hiking with the dog, so swung by to pick him up and take him along for the ride. We had a blast, and I am pretty sure he did too. As we walked through woods and fields, I explained to him about wood trolls. Being a sharp little boy, he quickly picked up on things and was soon alerting us to any nearby trolls. Slightly concerned, he asked if it was safe. I explained that yes, it was. They were just interested in watching. I also mentioned that we have a Norwegian troll in our house, and that it likes to peek out to see what we are doing. He found this intriguing and wondered if he could one day come see the troll. I assured him that this was possible. Later on, due to unseen delays, my friend called to ask if we could take him home and they would come get him later that evening. We packed up the dog and the boy, then headed to our house. Now, I do in fact have a small statue of a Norwegian troll that was given to me years ago. He currently resides on the book shelf at our house. Once the boy was fed, he settled on the couch with my husband to watch a movie. At some point while sitting on the couch, I casually mentioned that he might see the troll if he were careful not to spook it. After some intense searching, he finally spotted the little troll. “What’s he doing?” he asked. I carefully explained that like the woodland trolls, he was just watching. I explained that he just showed up one day, and after some thought decided that this was a nice place to live. He had been here ever since. I also explained that yes, he did move around. The boy was fascinated. Eventually his parents came to collect him. I learned from his mother that he talked constantly about the troll at our house. For Halloween, she let me know they were coming out for Trick O Treat. When they arrived, he asked if he could find the troll. I explained yes, I thought it was in the kitchen. Sure enough, this time the troll was in the kitchen behind a tea pot. Now in all seriousness, this boy is very aware that the troll is a statue. He knows fact from fiction. And yet, he is one of the few children I have met that still appreciate whimsy. Luckily his parents recognize this and encourage it. I have it on good authority that they now have their own troll. Apparently it showed up one day and decided that they had a good place to live. Here’s to all those Trolls who are able to find their own whimsical homes…and the children that let them inside.

Written November 21, 2009

A Series of Less Than Perfect Events...

Welcome to the new year. Ok, so the new year started a little while ago but at least I am still in the same month.

Although 2010 had many good things, I can't say that I am sorry to see it end. The last 6 months were beyond painful, but now it is time to try to move on and start fresh.

I am sitting here watching my cats. Mosley is giving Quatlieu a very through licking. So far she has chosen to enjoy it rather than smack him around, which she usually does. Quatlieu is the older of the two, much smaller and definately the more grumpier of the two. We found her when she was only a few weeks old and took her home to Pasquale, our cat at the time. He adopted her instantly and the two were inseperable until his death about 5 years ago. Mosely came with the house, so to speak. He showed up, looking like he owned the place, and after a series of incidents eventually was moved into the house. Quatlieu was less than pleased but tolerated his presence.

Through the years they have established the boundries for themselves as well as the dogs. Occasionally they will join forces or have a moment of 'togetherness' much now. It is not the most perfect of arrangements, but it works well for them. I guess that is what life is, a series of less than perfect arrangements that works as well as it can. Now if only someone would explain that to the dogs...