Losing Abby

A few months ago, while filling up my "mom-mobile" at the pump, I found myself reading a missing-pet poster that was plastered on one of the pillars. It read "Have You Scene This Dog?" And that's about as far as I could get without reverting to the glaring typo. I remember smiling at the incorrect use of the word scene, but then I started thinking about the family of this missing pet. Did they have kids? If so, how were they coping? Would they ever find their dog? (There seemed to be a lot of these missing-pet posters around lately.) If not, how would they deal with that? How would they learn to let go? (I was on empty; I had a lot of time to think.) I scolded myself for relishing in that typo under the circumstances. 

I couldn't imagine myself having to draft a poster to find my dog, but then again, I couldn't imagine myself having to draft a poster to lose my dog either, and here I am.

You see, before Elizabeth was born, Richard and I said that if our dog, Abby (who came into our family only weeks before we found out we were pregnant), so much as looked at Elizabeth the wrong way, Abby would have to go. But saying one thing and actually doing it are two different stories.

I'm ashamed to admit that the last time Abby snapped at Elizabeth it wasn't the first. It had happened twice before and we kept justifying it by saying "Oh, she's just not feeling well." It's not that we value Abby's well-being more than Elizabeth's. It's just that we wanted so desperately for our little family to work. But when it came down to it, we had to let go of that fantasy before it became a nightmare.

So with the help of Abby's obedience trainer, who also runs a dog rescue operation, we've begun the process of "losing Abby". Here is my "poster":

     Abby is a 2 ½ year old Bassett Hound/Sharpei mix looking for a dedicated family who can give

     her the exercise and attention she needs on a daily basis.

     Born on August 12^th, 2009, Abby has sadly shuffled through four homes during her short life.

     As a result, she has developed extreme separation anxiety. When in distress, she sheds and

     whines profusely and if left alone uncrated will chew on furniture and door knobs.

     Abby is very affectionate and loving, but she is also very protective of her sleeping quarters

     and her food/treats. She has displayed signs of aggression towards small children and dogs

     who have invaded this space and/or threatened her food supply. She enjoys eating her meals

     in her crate but will fast if crated and left alone.

     While she can be very laid back and enjoys lounging in front of the fireplace, Abby is very

     strong and does exhibit aggressive behaviour towards other dogs while on-leash, which can

     make walking her quite challenging. However, she loves the outdoors and is extremely 

     well-behaved when given the opportunity to run around off-leash with other dogs.

     Abby is spayed and has received all of her vaccinations to-date. (That said, she does have to

     visit the vet from time to time to have her anal glands drained.)

     She has also completed her Beginner and Intermediate Obedience Education. 

   

My poster may have typos, too, but I don't care. Like Abby, it may not be perfect, but it will, in some bizarre way, bring joy and happiness to the person who finds it, to the person who finds Abby. We'll miss you girl.

Lost

I stopped following Lost after its three-month hiatus in the third season, so I guess I can't really blame anyone who's stopped following my blog after its own brief (three-week) hiatus. I am, however, reconsidering the idea of watching the entire Lost series from start to finish, especially because I'd like to start watching Alcatraz but can't seem to bring myself to watch a new J.J. Abrams-related series without having finished an old one. (This anal retentiveness is surely the root of my self-diagnosed neurosis.) I guess what I'm trying to say is that I haven't completely given up on Lost, and I hope you haven't given up on me either.  

The truth is, I've been feeling a bit lost myself these days. Call it the blues, call it the blahs, call it what you will.

Over the past few weeks, my immune system was getting its ass kicked, my reproductive system was kicking mine, and Elizabeth's teething was kicking everyone's. To boot, despite my nightly moisturizing routine, my thumbs starting cracking, making the simple task of fastening a sleeper button feel like I was sticking my finger into an electric pencil sharpener. And, to get an idea of the stellar physical shape I'm in, I literally strained my neck while walking out of one room into another and gargling is near impossible. All in all, it's been a trying few weeks, physically and emotionally. If there were an award for being a "negative Nelly" (as my friend Carolyn would say), surely I'd have won it. (But it's healthy to complain, in moderation, because it's necessary to break yourself down before you can rebuild...right?)

With the help of my husband, my family, my mother-in-law, and my chiropractor, I've managed to get back on track (I think) and check off some much-needed rest, fresh air, light housekeeping, and a neck adjustment from my infinite to-do list (yet another culprit of said neurosis). In any case, I'm still considering temporarily changing the name of my blog to My Name's Debbie, Debbie Downer and am now a bit reluctant to publish one of my next posts, "Lorazepam and Loot Bags"....What the hell. Stay tuned.

When Life Gives You Lemons

I've seen my fair share of temper tantrums. When you've worked in an office with (at least) 95 per cent women, someone's bound to freak out from time to time. Raging hormones, ambition, and an inflated sense of self can lead to some very interesting, and often mildly entertaining, days at the office. We all have our moments.

More often than not, you might find yourself in the tantrum-thrower category or, less embarrassing, the tantrum-taker category, always at the receiving end of an assault. Assuming the latter, the way I see it, you have three options when facing an attack: you can walk away, even if you walk away wounded; you can plan a passive-aggressive revenge plot, which always appears to be more satisfying than it actually is; or you can fight fire with fire and hope it doesn't get you fired, which, although probably not the smartest idea, is what I think everybody really wants to do, deep down.

Being snubbed by a colleague is one thing, however; what do you do when you're snubbed by your 10-month old?

The other day Elizabeth was eyeing a bowl of fruit on the kitchen counter. Since we think it's important to encourage sensory stimulation, my husband handed her a lemon from the bowl. After about 10 seconds, during which time she studied and squeezed the lemon with her perfectly pudgy little hands, it - like everything else (e.g. bugs, lint, pine needles) - ended up in her mouth.

Holding her in one arm, my other arm reached over for the lemon, and I knew (or thought I knew) exactly what to expect when I took it away: a tantrum. She's thrown tantrums before - for example when we've told her, NO, she can't play with the DVD player, the VCR (yes, we still have one), the registers, or the fireplace screen - but nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. She looked at me, with genuine anger looming behind her big-girl tears, and then she looked at her dad - and put her arms out for him.

She hated me - the lemon- and tantrum-taker - and loved the lemon-giver. I was broken.

As I handed her over to her dad, I turned away from them and laughed, awkwardly. I was emotionally baffled. I really didn't know what to do. Do I fight fire with fire and throw a tantrum, too? No. That wouldn't be very mature, or productive. Do I plot revenge and lace her cereal with carrots rather than cinnamon? No. That's just mean. Instead, I did what I have always done best, and I walked away, even though I walked away wounded.   

Some say that when life gives you lemons, you should make lemonade. I have to say that I really don't care what you make, if anything; if life gives you lemons, whatever you do, don't give them to your daughter!

Born This Way

Just as I suspected, and recently confirmed, I was born late - 21 days late to be exact. I'm convinced that this is why I'm late for everything and why my parents dubbed me "last-minute Manda" at a very early age. It's in my genetic code. I was born this way.

At the office, I was notorious for missing my deadlines, and for my consistent tardiness, which came to be tolerated because of the length of my commute and because I always more than made up the time. In my defense, submitting late manuscripts wasn't always my fault. There were a few exceptions, a few common, absolutely legitimate explanations for what appeared to be my complete disregard for schedules: "I'm still waiting for the author to review my edits"; "I still have to code the manuscript for formatting"; "We haven't received permission for all of the photos"; "The author still hasn't supplied any of the photos"; or, my favourite, "The author has decided to take an impromptu vacation" (less than a week before his deadline, without even so much as mentioning it to me, for obvious reasons).

I don't think anyone really likes deadlines, and I'm guessing that anyone who says they do is lying. I can't think of a compound noun prefixed by the word dead that's ever carried a positive connotation: deadlock, deadwood, deadbeat; why should deadline be any different? In my opinion, deadlines are a lot like alarm clocks, and I can't say that I love either of them (except, of course, the alarm that really gets me out of bed these days). I guess you could say that I like the excitement of beginnings more than the finality of endings, but you can see where this is destined to be problematic.

Yesterday morning, to commemorate what would have been my first day back at work, I set my alarm for 6:30 a.m. (This may come across as sadistic, but back in the day, this is what time I would've had to pull my car out of the driveway to arrive at work half an hour late!)

My motivation was simple: I wanted to get up and scrub up before Elizabeth woke up; that way, instead of using her nap-times to cram in having a shower, blow-drying my hair, sweeping the floor, folding the laundry, doing the dishes, grabbing a bite to eat, and preparing something for dinner, I could write.

Forty-one minutes after my alarm went off, or six or seven snoozes later for those of you who prefer units of time measured in snooze-speak, I heard my daughter stirring, and I leapt out of bed, quickly washed my face, put on my make-up, forgot to put my contacts in before I put on my make-up, threw on my jeans (if you must know, they're still maternity), shimmied into a tank-top and sweater and, just like old times, was jolted into starting the day at the very last minute.

My daughter was born 10 days late, and even then, she was removed involuntarily via C-section after not one, not two, not three, but four failed inductions. I have to wonder if she'll be like me, late for everything, or like her dad, perfectly on-time for everything (and who, I might add, was born exactly on his due date)!