Tuck Everlasting

It has been over a year since I last posted, but that's only because nothing has happened. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Lies. Besides all the other excitement, Oscar has a new baby brother. We brought him home from the pound on September 26. He is an animal, haha (more hilarity), but he is also our new favorite buddy.
On the night before Thanksgiving, Tuck ran into the street and got nailed by a fast-moving car that swerved and squealed but did not stop. He was kept overnight and given IV pain meds, X-rays, and kept in a Temperapedic bed with wenches fanning him and serving him prime rib. Or maybe it just seems that way because the meter was already running on this visit, and, as it turns out, veterinary care is not that cheap. OMG.
They called from the vet at 1 AM and 5 AM with updates: yes, he would be okay, but yes, he would need surgery for his hip.
We opted to discharge him on Thanksgiving evening so that we could get a second opinion and talk about our options.
This little dog is new to our family, but we are already very much in love. He has provided us laughs and warmth. We have decided to do what we can to save him and to give him what he deserves and what he has given us: love, loyalty, and comfort.
Tomorrow morning, Tucker goes in for hip surgery. The prognosis for this type of surgery is very good, especially with him being so young. The total cost for hospitalization+surgery+meds is around $2000. He's worth it.
I'm overwhelmed by the support my online family has given, and many of you have asked about setting up a donations site. While I am, on the one hand, uncomfortable with this idea, I also think about all the times my friends and family have had struggles and I wished I had a way to help. Believe me, folks, your verbal support, prayers, and well-wishes are enough! But for those that WANT to contribute, here is a place to do so.
With deep gratitude for your kindness, Jeanne

I watch Joey run towards school in pants too big, shoes too small. I can't keep up, I want it all to be over, and in this one minute, I want time to stop. I want the dog to stay healthy, the kids to stay simple. Joey turns around and waves and runs into school, and this I simply can't believe today. And then I am alone.
The neighbor boy has grown up. Our roof needs replacing. I've gotten soft in the middle and lost my jawline. Absolutely nothing fits; the house is too big, the marriage is too small. Friendships are either too far gone or too new to know. And I am alone.

FIVE

Today my baby is five. I flip through the pictures of my pregnancy and the early months of being a family of five. I remember feeling so anxious and exhausted, but the pictures are beautiful. The filter of time helps. Even though Joey was my third child, I wondered during the entire pregnancy if I would have enough love/energy/time to go around. I did. I do.

The immediacy and intensity of the animal instinct after childbirth come back to me, that primal honey badger feeling that nothing else matters. Mother nature at her absolute finest. I flipped the baby side to side, examining his perfection, realizing NOT that I might not have enough to give but that something - Joey - was missing from our family all along.

I vow not to baby Joey, but he will always be my baby. He was the final piece in the puzzle, the one that allowed me to stand back and see the whole picture.

I love to travel back as far as my amended memories will take me, but I am glad to be where we are. The metamorphosis is staggering, from "Ronco," so nicknamed because we could "set'em AND forget'em," like the infomercial, to the Chris-Farley-on-coke whirling dervish of a toddler, to the smart and funny little boy he is becoming. I love this guy.

Today is a milestone for us both. For him, a new bike. For me, a pat on the back for making it, for doing the best I could, for creating this life. Happy birthday, Joey. Love, Mom

Oscar Thinks We're Perfect. And Vice Versa.

Now this might be the final straw for you, this Ode on Oscar, and I won't be mad if you promptly unfriend me. "Oscar" of title fame is our family dog. He is not flawless. This guy is a poop-eater, not just the frozen morsels either. This guy would shit directly into his own mouth if physics allowed it. So no, not perfect, but always there, always happy to see me. Trusty, ubiquitous Oscar.

Here is how things were in the beginning:



He was our first baby, a dress rehearsal for the real thing. This was back in the days of actual film, and we had no qualms about taking whole rolls of film of this frisky, naughty beast.

There was much anxiety over what would happen when we brought Jack home from the hospital. My gramzie was sure that the dog would eat the baby. We even did that whole thing where you bring the new baby's smell home on a blanket and let the dog get used to it. Oscar was like, "Bitch, please, get that rag off my couch."

But here is how it actually went down:



The most interesting thing about the baby for Oscar was that he was a whole new magical world of delicious, awful smells, like microwave popcorn/diarrhea/semi-digested sour breast milk/etc. So, yeah, it is safe to say they were fast friends.

The second time around, we didn't do that whole "smell the baby" gig, because trusty old Oscar KNEW what was coming. We brought the baby carrier in and ever-optimistic Oscar was like, "Hey, maybe now you'll stop being a crazy bitch and we can get back to those epic long walks!" I had become the mother of two kind of shipwreck, not the kind that takes her poor dog on long walks, unless it was to sneak cigs, which of course I would know nothing about because what kind of shabby mother smokes?

Cool-as-a-cucumber Oscar, though, took it in stride. Here is how things looked:



Around this time, Oscar became all honey badger about the kids. When other people or dogs came near, Oscar would snarl like he meant it. He did a routine nightly check on the kids before coming into our room. Sniff, sniff, ketchup and nugget boy safe in the toddler bed, check. Sniff, sniff, tiny one in the bassinet, check. Sniff, sniff, baby girl breathing softly in the crib, check.

Brace yourselves, friends; this ACTUALLY happened: On a particularly broken motherly moment, unamusedly musing, "So this is how the fuck it feels to not have not slept in 3 days," I was sobbing on the floor when Oscar came up and licked my tears. LICKED MY TEARS. Think of the symbolism and metaphor in this image rather than where that nasty canine mouth had been. He was thinking, "Pull yourself together, boo. We got this."

And we did. Even when Chad worked long hours, even during the extended barf-a-thons - Oscar particularly liked those - even when there was money trouble, work trouble, and broken appliances, I had my dog and my dog had me.

Fast-forward one more baby, two more moves, good old Oscar always in the mix, even as the rest of the world laughed (and indeed, they did):



I have been known to "get the mail" more than once per day, because even if I have only left for one minute, Oscar is pee-on-the-floor excited upon my return. He is thrilled to run with me even when you know his old bones hurt. He doesn't back-talk. He warms my feet. And heart.

This guy is cool, even if he does eat his poop.




Here we are now. I want this guy along for the ride, even if we need to take breaks.

The Elephant in The Room

I would like to be an athlete, but I am moderately lazy and definitely overweight. I have recently become an avid runner, though, and I sought the advice from a personal trainer on how to become better. She analyzed my gait, determining that I externally rotated at the hips and heel struck, which was resulting in shin splints. I was all like, "Which $180 shoes are going to help me break that 13-minute mile that I consistently run?" My trainer thought probably "something with more padding to insulate the heel strike." She suggested strength training, especially for the core. I was all like, "When does the carb-loading start?" And she laughed, but I was actually serious.

At no time did the lovely Kaitlyn suggest that my running would improve vastly if I would stop being fat. And it didn't occur to me at the time that I externally rotate my hips because otherwise I would start a friction fire between my legs (not the good kind). Or that POSSIBLY I was getting shin splints because it was too much fucking weight being jostled around on them during my "runs." Or that perhaps the shoe wasn't the problem at all.

And then something even more startling occurred to me: Perhaps lovely Kaitlyn genuinely didn't see this as part of the problem. Obesity is so commonplace that we have stopped seeing it as such, but the proof of it is still there in all the places it has always been: knee pain, ankle pain, GI disturbances, fatigue.

I do this all the time in my own line of work. As a massage therapist, I work with clients suffering from all kinds of pain. So often, clients muse, "Do I need to consider knee replacements? Should I try PT? Would BioFreeze help?" The elephant in the room is so incredibly difficult to approach and impossible to sensitively discuss. This is not Jeanne being a dick, this is Jeanne being as pragmatic as a caveman: the problem is too much weight. Our bodies, the most complex of simple machines, are breaking under our weight.

I am not passing judgement on obesity, because if you live in a fat house you shouldn't throw fat stones. Or something. The enormity (if you will) of our cultural acceptance of obesity is causing myriad other problems, not just that we are too sensitive to honestly approach the issue but worse, that we fail to even see it sometimes.

As a bodyworker, I am self-aware. I brought the weight issue to the table to discuss with Kaitlyn. Once the topic was broached she had so much other great advice for me, like diet suggestions, strength training to stimulate metabolism, etc. And when a client opens that door for me, I am able to somewhat delicately agree that YES, additional weight on the knees/ankles/vicera is problematic. Without that invitation, though, both Kaitlyn and I have trouble entering into this dialogue with people. And the problem is HUGE.

Now talk amongst yourselves and report back. I, for one, need to pop on these big padded shoes and break a landspeed record with my fat dog.

Pineapple Cake & Pride

I just love women, everything about them. If it wasn't for this business of sexual attraction to men - generally - and MY man - specifically - I could see living out my days with a nice gal. I could picture us whipping up pineapple upside-down cake and reading "In Touch" together. For a hot minute I was all like "OMG I NEED A SISTER WIFE," but then I watched the show and realized that whole scenario is bogus.

But partnerships, though...those work really well. Men and men, women and men, women and women, etc. A partnership makes us feel secure, connected, protected, loved, giddy, cozy, strong, beautiful, and smart. I am a wonderful person without my man, yes, and I could take on the world without him, yes. But I am a better and more complete person with him. He brings out the purest sense of me and I, him. Man, I love this guy, even despite his total disregard for celebrity news, inability to bake, and disinterest in shoes.

I have chosen a man as my partner. The world approves of our union and the laws uphold our partnership.

I filter everything through my kids' eyes now though, and I try to picture the world when they become adults. I want desperately to know that if my son chooses a man as a partner, his marriage will be legitimate in the eyes of the law. Let's not get all bananas and throw The Lord into this discussion - that is a battle for someone else to fight - I am talking about a legal union, equal rights for gay and straight marriages alike.

We are getting there. Each new state that makes baby steps in the right direction makes me swell with pride. So much PRIDE.

Da Club

This may be the first installment of a million-part series on gym-related pet peeves. I have an extensive list of pet peeves, ranging from the yoga farters to the naked hair dryers, from the grunters to the floaters.

1. I love to lap swim. In addition to the valid posted rules like "Do not remove band-aids in the pool" and "Do not swim with communicable diseases" I would love to see something about snorkel gear and the pool joggers. On a technicality, if you are wearing a snorkel or your feet don't leave the ground, you are NOT lap swimming and you should immediately go back to the warm pool filled with kids' piss. Also, if you don't want to get your permanent wave wet, you MUST return to dry land. I once had a throwdown with a whole pack of angry seahags in Aquasocks because my swimming - in the pool in the lap lane - was too "splashy," which it was not. I swim like a manta ray, all grace. If only I could transfer this grace from the pool onto land OR from the pool to my conversations with angry retirees. It all went sour when I suggested they try Silver Sneakers next time.
If you choose to split the lane as opposed to circle swim - I am SUCH a fan of this concept - a 50/50 split is desirable. The 90/10 split where you actually float diagonally without creating any forward momentum is marvel of physics. It is also NOT lap swimming. Back to the warm pool, Agnes.

2.I am no prude, and I am relatively comfortable with nudity. But sometimes it is absolutely gratuitous. There is no earthly reason you need to be naked for aggressive blow-drying. These wayward breasts swinging around the locker room would just as easily tuck into the towel around your waist.

3.Thou shalt not fart into your yogi neighbor's face during down dog. There is nothing serene or tranquil about your half-digested roast beef being blasted into the crowded room. Namaste.

4.Mild B.O.=sexy. Fecal matter, fungus foot, cigarette smoke=less sexy.

Help me out. What am I missing?