Fiddledeedee

I know that I included a small portion of this saga in my Christmas letter last year, but as per usual, I felt the need to gild the lily.

When I was pregnant with Jensen, I had to have my almost 20 year old cat, Katie, put to sleep. Afterward I had a “no-more-pet-clause” written into my contract. Since then, Emme has been campaigning hard for a dog. “We don’t need a dog, we have Jensen” is my standard reply. “But Mommmmmyyy, Jensen’s not a dog, he’s just a baby,” she whines. “Well, he eats off the floor, chews on shoes, and he’s certainly not housebroken,” I holler after her as she flounces out of the room. He also licks the electrical outlets, but we don’t like to talk about that.

One day, she was quietly working on a project at the kitchen table. Upon completion, she stealthily headed toward the tape dispenser. I asked her what she was doing. With reluctance, she showed me her “Lost Dog” poster. Included was her name, our phone number, and a drawing of the type of dog she would most like to have. She reasoned that if someone should happen upon a dog like this, they would give her a call. Mommy put her size 7 1/2 foot down with a firm “no.”

Next, she woke up one morning and announced that God told her she would have a dog by 11 a.m. Anxiously, she watched the clock. By noon there was no dog. I did think about serving hot dogs for lunch, but reconsidered.

Finally, one day thinking she had given up, I heard her at the back door saying sternly, “No Barko, be quiet.” Dubious, I asked her who she was talking to. She said, “my dog Barko.” Allrightythen. So, Emme continues to reprimand her new found friend throughout the afternoon. Cailey, with her curiosity finally piqued, asks, “Who’s Barko?” “Our dog” was the sisterly reply. “We don’t have a dog” counters Cailey. “Uh huh.” “Nu huh.” “Uh huh.” “Nu huh.” This verbal tennis match went on for awhile. Nonplussed, Cailey finally goes to the sliding glass door, with her hands on her hips and deadpans, “Oh. We do have a dog.” Then almost immediately they begin arguing over who Barko belongs to.

So, we have an imaginary dog named “Barko.” I think this is a great compromise. The girls have a dog (although we may have to get an additional dog so they won’t fight over him), and I don’t have another mouth to feed, or another behind to clean up after.

Recently, however, after a particularly exhausting day with Barko the dog, Emme comes into the room, where I’m nursing my 5th cup of coffee, and throws herself down on the floor with a heavy sigh saying, “I wish we didn’t have a dog, they are so much hard work.”

Today is my birthday. On any normal morning, I rise earlier than the birds in order to shower, get at least one cup of coffee in me, and enjoy the last vestiges of peace before my house erupts in children. This morning I was determined to sleep in. Jensen, the 17 month old, had other plans. He wakes everyone up with his morning song at about 6:30 a.m. Sweetly, Tom sends me back to bed, but no sleep is forthcoming. I arise a second time, feeling a bit worse than the first, but am greeted by a birthday banner and sweet cards made by the husband and my girls. Emme, the six year old says “Mommy, you look pretty good for 47”. “46” I correct her.

The decision is made that we would all go out to breakfast to celebrate. Tom was going to St. Augustine for business later in the morning, and would not be able to take me out to dinner. I take what I can get. I love dining out. I love the entire dining experience. I just want to plant my behind on some naugahyde, peruse a menu (preferably with pictures), make a selection, and not have to jump up the entire meal to retrieve anything or anyone from the kitchen. Oh yeah, and rely on someone else to clear and do the dishes. Sheer heaven.

So, we pile into the van to go to Mimi’s. There are no pictures on the menu, but the naugahyde is fabulous. We settle into the booth while Tom wrestles Jensen into the high chair. I say “wrestle” because most activities involving Jensen and something he doesn’t want to do include a lot of struggle, sweat and sometimes a little blood. I know this as fact because every diaper change is a fight to the death.

So, as a grown man goes 10 rounds with this pint-size terror-in-Thomas-the-Tank-sneakers, all heads begin to turn. When Jensen starts screaming at the top of his little lungs, my husband has to holler over all of the noise, “Maybe we should sit outs…”. Before he can finish the sentence, we’re whisked out to the deserted patio area. Where the smokers are relegated. I follow, toting my coffee cup, a diaper bag, and the snack bag, apologizing as I go to anyone staring at us. Which was pretty much everyone. As far as our new dining accommodations go, please note that this is Florida…in August. Enough said. So we set up the DVD player on the table (don’t judge me), and between me and Tom manage to maneuver Junior into the high chair. Then we settle into our hard plastic chairs, where I immediately begin to sweat, and then stick.

I flashback to a time when Tom and I were “child free” and were having dinner with good friends of ours, who did have children. The kid at the table behind ours was screeching a sound that only dogs should hear. My husband I were incredulous that our friends could carry on a conversation as though nothing were wrong, while our hair was parting in the back.

So, back to breakfast. I decide to step off my Southbeach diet bandwagon in honor of my special day and order the French Toast. And as long as I kept shoveling food into the small boy, our private patio dining experience wasn’t too bad. Well, except for the sweating….and the flies. But, the kindly and patient server packed me a to-go box with yummy muffins for my birthday. This is my kind of restaurant, I think to myself. Of course, we won’t be back until Jensen goes off to college.

We thankfully arrive back at home, and Tom heads off to St. Augustine. The girls and I begin to snack on muffins. In fact, that was our lunch. My phone rings. My sister-in-law Trish tells me to go to my front door. Outside waiting for me were balloons, a present, and a pan of freshly baked brownies (with a candle). “Oh boy” I exclaim, now we’ve got dinner covered! At this point I’ve nose-dived off of my little red diet-wagon and it has run over me.

At about 9 in the evening, Tom returns, bringing me a bottle of port wine. The kind that you unscrew. That’s my favorite wine. And it only has about 620 grams of sugar per glass.

So, I sit here thoroughly disgusted with myself, with a shot glass of maalox, watching “Celebrity Fit Club”. I suppose I’ll climb back onto my little diet wagon tomorrow. But today, IS MY BIRTHDAY! I bet that last brownie isn’t quite frozen yet…….

I love aquariums. We had one when I was a kid and my two favorite fish were the angelfish, Angela and Timothy. I would spend hours just staring into that tank of peaceful serenity. That is, until Angela ate Timothy.

Still my love of all things aquatic continued into my teen years when I had my very own aquarium in my very own room. My hopes of one day becoming a Marine Biologist were dashed when I came home from school and discovered that my fish had been murdered. I was the prime suspect. It seems that I had forgotten to turn off the heater in the tank before I left that morning, thusly boiling all but one, a calico goldfish that was henceforth known as “Hotdog”. He then relocated to a large fishbowl on the kitchen counter for the next couple of years, where he happily lived out the remainder of his days, minus a few scales.

Throughout most of my adult life, I’ve had aquariums. I was skittish about keeping one in Los Angeles; however, what with the earthquakes and all. So, my husband promised me that when I moved to Florida, I would have an aquarium, and a nice tan. I still have no tan, but I do have an aquarium. She’s a 37 gallon beauty filled with hardy tropical fish, in other words, the kind that are hard to kill.

So, a couple of weeks ago, Emme (my 6 year old) bounces into the room all excited, “Mommy, one of our fish is dancing…he’s going upside down and everything!”. That can’t be good. Sure enough, my 4 year old orange serpae tetra was going belly up. When he wasn’t floating at the top, he was getting stuck against the filter. Now, I’m no expert, but something told me that this fish was a goner. So, for the sake of the 6 year old, I set up the “infirmary bowl” and plopped him in. The next day he’s not quite dead yet, but close. I just don’t get around to flushing him. That night, all sheepish, Emme tells me she has something she must confess. “Mommy, I think I touched the fish.” Pause. ” Welllllll”, she continues, “I didn’t just touch him, I might have squeezed him a little”. After I make her wash her hands, I give her a stern lecture on not touching dead fish and send her to bed. The next morning I prepare to give the fish a burial at sea before anyone awakens. Imagine my surprise when I see my feisty little fish, swimming around with not a care in the world.

So, I keep the fish in the infirmary bowl for a while longer on the bar over the sink, because I haven’t seen him eat or poop (both are important in the fish world…well, in any world I reckon). I feed him a little and stand at the sink washing dishes, watching him for about 5 minutes. Then, without warning, he LEAPS HIGH out of the bowl, and right into the sink’s garbage disposal, which is on, of course. Immobilized, I stare down into the insinkerator, thinking how in the world am I going to save this fish, without losing a finger? And how gross is this going to be? I decide to pretend it never happened (a coping technique I’ve perfected over the years), but then I think about the ensuing stench in my kitchen. Then, from out of nowhere, I see him wiggle out from behind the sponge cup on the sink rim. I catch him before he really does go down the drain and chuck him back in the bowl….and cover it with a heavy dish. I said to Tom that I should name him “Lucky”. He counters with, “Or Stoooopid”. Anyway, eventually Lucky rejoined his fish friends back in the aquarium, where he’s doing just dandy, bragging about his daring adventures.

I’ve always thought that my Emme was an anointed child. So, perhaps my little mini-faith healer has the gift of “laying on of hands”, or fingers as it were. Which is just fine with me, as long as she remembers to wash afterwards.