The Giving D.

Our dog is 15 and has terrible arthritis in her back legs.  And pneumonia.  And a large mass in her lungs that may be cancer.  And she has pretty much lost her hearing along with about a third of her body weight.

But she still wags her tail when she sees me.  And she still follows me from room to room, which stresses me out because I know it must take so much effort.  "I'm just running upstairs to put this laundry away." I tell her.   "I'm coming right back down.  I promise."   She doesn't buy it.  Never has. Wherever I am is where it's at.

It's been this way for almost 15 years-- ever since that day in August when my boyfriend/future husband and I brought her home from the shelter.  She threw up on me a little in the car on the way back to the city and I guess that sealed the deal.  I told my boyfriend that he had to agree now that if we ever broke up that she was my dog.  

Over the years that ownership grab has come back to haunt me a bit-- "your dog is killing all the grass..." "your dog needs to go out..."-- but like any young couple thinking of a future together, we doted on our dog.  Birthday cakes, dog-friendly vacations, photo ops, you name it.  We didn't go so far as to dress her in clothes; but I did try to get her to wear booties and a coat during that first winter.  Her expression was classic: no way, dude.  I took them off.  And the dog was happy.

Then there were the lean years for the pooch.  We had a baby.  And he didn't sleep.  He took up so much of my attention that I couldn't have given nearly as much to my dog as she was used to.  I even kept our midday dog walker from when I had been working because I just couldn't coordinate it all.  But still, I vividly remember one night crying on my bed in frustration as the baby cried in his crib unable to go to sleep or stay asleep no matter what I did, my dog came and nuzzled up next to me.  "How can I make it better?" she seemed to be saying to me.  I cried into her fur.  And the dog was happy.

For years the kids required so much time and energy I honestly don't remember how my dog fit in the mix.  I know her name was one of my daughter's first words and I know she is usually somewhere in the frame of most videos and photos from those early years.  So it wasn't like I stopped paying attention to her.  I just know I wasn't all there. But she was no doubt right on my heels, stopping to catch the falling Cheerios and goldfish crackers.  And the dog was happy.

Then the renaissance-- my daughter went to Kindergarten.  Suddenly I had six hours on my own.  We had six hours together.  Time to take those long walks together on the trails again.  Time to read a book on the couch next to my dog.  Time to unearth the chuck-it and feed into her ball chasing OCD.  And the dog was happy.

As I look back I realize that, over the course of her lifetime, I've probably spent more time with my dog than with anybody else.  She has given me unconditional love, countless moments of pure joy, way more smelly dog-breath kisses than I would have liked, and someone to talk to as I slog through the mundane tasks of running a house.

I know someday I'm going to have to let her go.  But for now, her tail is wagging. 

And I am happy.

Chalk It Up To Old Age

As further proof that Weaselsnark and I are morphing into one person, I too had a physical right after New Year's. I went to my doctor with a list of concerns straight out of a Shel Silverstein poem, determined to uncover the mystery ailment that is preventing me from having the girlish figure I enjoyed at 16.

Alas, she found that everything was within the normal range. Not even an under active thyroid to blame. In fact, she consoled me by saying that not being Kate Moss, I was at low risk for osteoporosis which would have had more weight (ha ha) had I not already got osteoarthritis. What's one more osteo?!

On the way out she took a final look at the little white bumps that have appeared on the skin under my eyes and declared that they weren't milia after all, but calcium deposits, which is the same diagnosis I got from my last mammogram. I am now concerned that I am turning into a piece of chalk. Possibly (I didn't do so well in chemistry) this make no sense whatsoever. Either way, I am calcifying inside and out.

My doctor suggested getting tested for food allergies (I think to get rid of me) so I went and did that. Twelve little drops were applied to my forearm, then the skin underneath was broken. Imagine my excitement when #12 started to form a nice hive and itch like crazy! I have an allergy! This could explain EVERYTHING!!! Sadly, it was the test sample, given to make sure you haven't taken antihistamines in the past 48 hours and thereby, skewed the results.

Alas, it's back to sensible eating and exercise. WAH-wah.

40 Serving Love

My son ran me all over the tennis court the other day, leaving both me and my self-esteem sore.

Though wounded, my ego was able to throw up any number of weak justifications: I haven't played in years (decades even); he practices six hours a week with the tennis team and/or pros and every weekend with my husband; my racket is ancient (with a nauseatingly sticky grip); I have 40 year old legs; and on and on.

But he and I both know that, notwithstanding the fact that he called every single close ball in his favor, he beat me fair and square. And even though I contributed to his win by having umpteen unforced errors, I was trying my best.

He's being semi-gracious about it, but it still doesn't sit well with me. I'm raring for a rematch. I'm just going to have to sneak in some practice first.

Good grief. What am I going to do when he (inevitably) grows stronger and taller than I am?

Wrinkles in Time

It's weird that certain things can make you feel suddenly old. It's not so much birthdays for me; it tends to be incidents that illustrate the narrowing of my life-choices.

The first time this happened was when I realized I was older than the reigning Wimbledon champions. Even though I never even played tennis on a school team let alone at competition level, the remotest possibility that I might someday be a tennis star was now removed.

And just like September 11th or the day the OJ Simpson verdict was handed down, I remember exactly where I was the first time somebody called me "Ma'am". I can also clearly recall the first time I wasn't carded while buying beer.

Today, thanks to a fabulous new development at the DMV, I went to get an eye test and renew my driver's license at the optometrist. Looking at the doctor's diplomas hanging on the wall I noticed he was younger than me by several years. Oh man. Another milestone.

Not That There's Anything Wrong With It

Five telltale signs that I am a housewife:

1. I have three supermarket tags and a gym pass on my keyring.

2. I own a crock pot.

3. I have tendinitis in my right hand, which mysteriously disappeared when we went on vacation (no cooking, laundry, driving - yes, I grip the steering wheel THAT hard) and is now back with a vengeance.

4. In the trunk of my car I have a first aid kit.

5. The highlight of my week was seeing Bill Clinton this morning (why, oh why, wasn't I wearing any makeup???)

Not the Best Way to Start the Week

I had to go to the doctor today for my annual checkup. Honestly, aside from adding a balcony and inviting friends and family in to observe, I can’t think of how a visit to the gynecologist could be any more ick. What’s so bad about it? Here’s my quick list.

• First of all, I hate the word gynecologist. It somehow sounds both whiny and guttural.
  
  
• The weighing and the measuring. Each year I’m slightly shorter. How? My doctor told me to picture the spaces between my vertebrae as jelly doughnuts that are being compressed. Lovely. And now I want doughnuts. Thanks.
  
  
• The poking and the prodding. No explanation needed.
  
  
• Worse than the poking and the prodding? Having to carry on inane conversation during said poking and prodding.
  
  
• Worse still? Debating politics. That’s what my doctor wanted to do today. Dude, you have clothes on. You’re standing up. You win.
  
  
• The assistant/witness. Is she there to help the doctor or to guard against lawsuits? Whichever it is, the demands of her role are minimal enough that I can’t help but feel she has plenty of time to judge my personal grooming, my pedicure, and my thighs.

Ick, right?

Hand Over a Whole Mango Please...

Included on the list of things my little girl has inherited from me are her eyes, the ability to roll her tongue, and a love of Free to Be… You and Me.

As a kid, I spent many happy hours listening to Marlo Thomas and Friends singing songs, telling stories and reciting poems. My brother, sister, and I even staged a live version at Thanksgiving one year. And now my old favorite is in heavy rotation on my daughter’s pink, pumpkin-shaped CD player.

I still know the album by heart, but I appreciate its gender equality message/agenda more now. My perspective has changed-- a point made most clear to me by one song, “Parents Are People.” Basically, the premise of the song is that both parents can be anything they want to be: moms can be doctors, drive taxis, or sing on TV; and dads can be writers, welders, or sail on the sea. The song points out that “when mommies were little, they used to be girls, like some of you, but then they grew and now mommies are grown-ups…” Of course, when I was little this song was about my parents and I imagined my mom as a rancher or a baker, my dad as a painter or a funny joke-teller. Now I’m the grownup. Yikes. How did that happen? (And what happened to the cool, anti-gender stereotyping job I was supposed to have?)

But children do forget that their parents were once kids (it’s so hard to imagine). Last month my son came home singing “Johnny and Suzie sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G…” This playground classic was new to him and hilarious. He sang it over and over (and over and over), but the version he had picked up ended with “then came the baby in the baby carriage.” At some point I absentmindedly chimed in with the ending I grew up singing: “sucking his thumb, wetting his pants, doing the hula-hula dance.” The record scratched. My son’s expression was caught between utter amazement that I even knew the song and utter joy that I had introduced him to a new verse (and a subversive one at that).

Just wait until we get to “Miss Lucy.”

Brace Yourself

What if I told you there was a product that could make you look and feel like a tweenager while also helping you lose weight? You’d want in, right?

Not so fast, my friend.

My miracle is also my mortification: Braces. Orthodontia. Tinsel teeth.

As part of a larger plan to try and embrace the inexorable approach of a four in my tens column, I am fixing some crowding in my mouth that has gotten worse over time. So far, it has not been fun. There’s the physical pain of the braces themselves— the pressure in my jaw, the raw skin inside my lip— and then there’s the mental toll.

First of all, it’s kind of embarrassing to be the only adult unaccompanied by a child in the orthodontist’s waiting room-- my minority status (further) driven home by the fact that the TVs suspended from the ceiling to distract me from all the tools and fingers in my mouth were tuned to Phineas and Ferb.

And I had to have a tooth removed, which has resulted in a hillbilly look that drove one friend to coin the (loving, I’m sure) nickname Mountain Dew. Flossing has become a Herculean task involving special floss and a fair amount of time. But that’s okay-- I can’t really eat anything because it feels weird and I don’t want stuff to get caught in my Jan Brady grill.

Which brings me back to where I started. I look like a misplaced middle-school student and I’m dropping weight like crazy. You in?