Dog Tired

My step-daughter is a 12 year old Labrador retriever named Remy. She came with Larry, just as I came with Jud. It's a common occurrence in these after-30 relationships; when we don't find our spouses in our 20s, we get a dog to keep us company on lonely nights. When we do finally meet the one, we end up in a house full of dogs, which is okay when it's just "us." But once we add a baby (or two) to the mix, the dogs can become unwelcome burdens rather than cherished step-children. And I must admit, there have been days I've dreamt of a Remy-less (and Jud-less, Izzy-less, and Bootsie-less) home.

Remy protecting a 2-month old Gray.

When the boys were newborns, we'd lay them on the floor. Remy would see a passing neighbor or the UPS man and carelessly bound to the window to to attack, never stopping to think about the infants in her path. The panic I felt as I saw a 70 pound beast bounding toward my 5 pound baby was indescribable, and surprisingly (and infuriatingly) not shared by Larry. He trusted her. I did not. But after one near miss, I started locking Remy up during their floor playtime.

Then there was the hair. Virginia describes the endless supply of lab hair as "little pieces of love"; I'd call it as "little pieces of filth." It's on their clothes, their sippy cups, their dinner plates, everywhere. I could probably crochet a sweater for both boys with all the dog hair they have swallowed. So gross.

But not as gross as this last story, one that I have a hard time admitting, but one I must put on paper (or in this case computer screen) in order to finally deal with it. Two weeks ago, Remy was in the playroom with the boys while I cleaned up their dinner mess. When I turned around, Ren threw a brown ball at me. "What toy is that?" I wondered. "We don't have a brown ball." Then I looked more closely. Oh yes. Yes, it was. My son was throwing a Remy turd. And there was more on the floor that Gray was running for. I choked down my own dinner that threatened to come back up, grabbed both boys, and ran outside. I scrubbed them for five minutes, trying to erase the image from my mind in the process. I wanted to kill Remy. I probably would have if I had gotten my hands on her. But it turns out, cancer was already in the process of taking care of that for me.

A tumor had been growing in her belly for the last month, causing bad breath and loss of bowel control. It wasn't her fault. When we finally got around to getting her into the vet, it was almost too late to do anything. But two days and $3000 later, the tumor was removed. The diagnosis, however, is grim. It has metastasized to the liver, indicating that it is cancerous, and that we are on borrowed time with our girl Remy.

Suddenly the thought of my boys growing up without Remy saddens me. They won't know that they fed her from their high chairs. They won't remember her exuberance or her little pieces of love or the way that she laid next to my bed every night when I was pregnant. They won't know that Remy immediately accepted them into her pack and protected them from guests, neighbors, and even the menacing mailman. They will never see their daddy at his tenderest, when he sits with his dog and loves his little "piglet." Suddenly I know how much this family is going to miss its girl.

Our first kids.

Two is for Twins

The teacher that I am, I've made little "bulletin boards" in the boys playroom. We have shapes, colors, and numbers on the walls, and both boys love to spend time pointing at each item and saying its name. For some reason, they are fascinated by numbers, especially the number 5. When we walk through the neighborhood, they actively search out mailboxes with the number 5 and often insist that other numbers are actually the number 5.

"Fie!" Ren will yell, pointing at a 9.

"No, baby, that's a nine."

"No, no, no nine. Fie!" Grayden will agree.

They know other numbers and can identify them when asked, but they just really like the number 5. Ren is so obsessed that he studies my Michigan State t-shirts, insisting that the "S" is a 5. The varsity font looks a little like a 5 so I just agree and say, "Yes, son, it is a 5!" Larry and I have started to wonder if he's figured out that he is Lawrence V. 

Anyway, I have counted to three every time I turn on their nursery light since they were born. It gives them a sort of warning to close their eyes in order to adjust to the light from a dark to bright room.So I was excited yesterday on our bike ride when I heard Ren start counting behind me in the bike trailer. "One, two, three!" he said triumphantly.

Then it was followed repeatedly  by "One, two, three, five!"

Three beach babes.

Calling All Inventors

For the last 19 months, I've been pestering my father to invent a device to make grocery shopping easier for twin moms and Irish twin moms. Whether it was a fold-up cart or universal basket system that attached to strollers, there had to be a better way than pushing a stroller and pulling a cart.

Thankfully, the Christners were listening. Parents of twins themselves, they faced the same dilemma, but rather than waiting for someone else to invent a product, they actually did it. The Buggy Bench is an attachable seat that sits right in the holding area of the cart. Check out my boys on their first Buggy Bench ride:

It's not perfect; Ren found that he could stand up, and he often did, but he was strapped into the seat so that kept him from moving around while he stood. And there is still limited storage space under Ren, but it's more than I had with a stroller alone and more convenient than creating the stroller-cart train. Overall, I am very satisfied with my Buggy Bench and would highly recommend it to moms with younger twins.