Mommy Do-little

I have a teeny, tiny, furry problem.

A few weeks ago, Craig asked if he could bring his parents’ toy poodle to our house for a few days. I said yes, but only for the sake of the children.

As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t dig animals. I allow Chase to watch Life or Animal Planet when I’m not in the room. But other than that, I keep my distance. All the licking and sniffing and scales and feathers and fur . . . I mean, really. I have enough to deal with.

Speaking of enough to deal with, I quit parenting two weeks ago. I do not parent in August. August parenting is just not a good look for me. It’s hotter than hell, and the children and I have already had a whole lot of togetherness. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been a great summer. I’ve really enjoyed all the carpe diem-ing and living in the moment and enjoying the small things and priceless moments and so on and so forth. Truly. Just lovely. But I’m officially carpe’d out. No more. I refuse to enjoy another moment until the moments change significantly. And so at a family meeting recently, I smiled pretty and announced to the children that I was officially done with the following:

- Smiling when you people spill things. I am past the mommy point of no return. Which means that I can no longer pretend that I’m not mad at you when you spill your cereal, water or entire dinner plate fifteen seconds after I put it in front of you. I know I’ve been acting calm and saying, “it’s okay sweetie” through clenched teeth for a few years now. That’s all over. It’s not okay, actually. If you spill, expect the wrath. Prepare for it, take a deep breath . . . ‘cause it’s a coming. Oh yes, I know it was an accident, mom! and I’m sure your future therapist will be happy to talk to you about how this injustice made you feel. Please know that I have forgiven myself unequivocally for my unfairness, random rage, and unforgiveness, and I can only hope that this will bring you comfort.

- Feigning fascination with stories that have absolutely no point and are punctuated by excruciating pauses of approximately three minutes after each and every word. Your stories start after breakfast and by the time you are done it’s time for me to prepare lunch. And they’re not good. They are really NOT good stories. I really don’t even understand what you’re saying. I am going to suggest to your teachers that they skip teaching geography this fall and instead teach some storytelling skills so that your audience is not forced to smile manically at you while internally twitching and fantasizing about how to suffocate herself. Every time you say “Mom . . . listen,” I feel as powerless and panicked as an unarmed hostage. For the remainder of the summer, I am going to carry a buzzer around with me. If you begin a story and it does not end within two minutes, I am going to buzz you very loudly, and walk away.

- Refereeing. I will no longer intervene to save you. So as my wise friend tells her children, if you are going to fight, be prepared to fight to the death.

- Cooking, cleaning, playing, teaching, reading, smiling . . . talking, even, really. If you need me, call Bubba and Tisha. Number's on the fridge. I'll be in my room. Please knock only after you observe pumpkins and football jerseys and piles of leaves and you have enrolled yourself in several after school activities. Love you forever.

Anyway, Craig suggested poodlesitting the day after I’d submitted my mommy resignation, and I thought jackpot. I figured the kids could play with the dog for four days and it’d seem like a family activity without actually having to do any family activities. Perfection.

My personal goal for the dog’s visit was to disguise my disgust for her as effectively as possible.

Then she arrived.

You guys.

I love her.

Craig’s dad is always upgrading his things and then giving us his old things, which are still in really, really good shape. He gave us our fancy camera, as a matter of fact, when he got his new one. So the night before Craig had to bring Ginger back to his parents’, I asked if maybe Grandpa could get a new Ginger and just give us the old Ginger because really, she’s so not the latest model.

Craig said he didn’t think dogs worked the same as cameras and computers and that his parents loved Ginger and probably wouldn’t want to give her away and I said, well that’s just really selfish.

And then he took her home. And I was so sad. I called her several times to see if she missed me. Which she did, according to Craig . A lot. And then for the next few days I got sadder and sadder.

But a few hours ago, Craig brought her back! Ginger’s back for another visit! And now she’s lying on the floor by my chair while I write to you. She just sits there and breathes at me and thinks I’m fabulous and she never spills anything or tells me any stories or wants to make out or requires anything to be cooked.

I know I can’t have her. But I think I might need one of my own just like her.

Whadya think?