Mother and Child Reunion

As some of you may know, last year I made the difficult/easy decision to have Gracie move into the home of my amazing dog walker, Nina.

Nina was always very understanding when I'd complain about my love/less than love relationship with Gracie. She'd give me great advice, which I would either adopt and experience great failure, or would just look glassy eyed at her and say, "umkay" (yes, Nina I will start brushing Gracie's one crazy tooth. Umkay).

I would always joke, "Gracie you go live with Nina-New-Mommy" and laugh. Nina would respond that she'd take Gracie in a heart beat. But the guilt would come crashing down on me like big boxes of heavy guilt that rained down from Planet Guilt and I could not taker her up on it.

One day, Nina suggested she take Gracie for a week, just for a bit of respite. And I figured I could do that. After all, Gracie had stayed with her when Brian and I had gone away on vacations. I felt no guilt about that, so this would be no different.

So off Gracie went one Sunday afternoon with her little suitcase and promises that she'd be good for Nina while Mommy enjoyed not screaming and crying by 4pm every day. Is this what having a colicky infant is like? For 10 years?

At the end of one week, I asked Nina if she could do another week.

By day 10 I asked Nina if her offer to adopt Gracie was still on. And it was. And I could have wept with relief.

And horrible crushing guilt.

Followed by more relief.

After about two months of Gracie living with New Mommy, Nina brought her by one day.  She was soft and shiny and had a little pep in her step. She'd lost a couple pounds (She weighed 30 pounds on her last day with me, which was about 10 pounds too much. That's a lot on a little dog). I held her for a couple minutes and then got frightfully misty.

Gracie seemed pretty non-plussed.

Whatevs, old mommy. I'm living the high life now.

Anyway, that was all 14 months ago. She's lost a total of 10 pounds, and as Nina reports much of her odd behaviour has gone. No more having to pee at 3 am. And 5 am. And 7am. No more barking at all things in general, but molecules specifically. No more incessant whinging (pronounced Whin-Jing). I've had several little visits with Gracie but this past weekend, we had her for the whole weekend because Nina took her family to do something to do with bikes that sounds awful if you're a sedentary adult who likes TV and snacks. Say, like me.

Within two seconds of Nina saying "bye bye little Boo" to Gracie and shutting the door, the weird Gracie behaviour started up again - the whimpering and begging eyes and the tap tap tapping on the floor, trying to tell me she wants something, but I never get it right.

 THIS DOG IS A BOTTOMLESS PIT OF INDEFINABLE NEED. It's like playing a guessing game except it never, ever ends and the only way to win is to go sit on the front steps, alone, with booze.

So when Sunday evening rolled around and it was time to pack little weirdo off to her new family, it was not without both sweet frosted relief and a big dollop of shame.

Even though it has all worked out for all involved, I still feel like I've failed Gracie. I want to be like those mega tattooed women who rescue death row pit bulls and reform them into 75 pounds of muscle-y adorableness. I want to be the kind of person who does not project my fears and insecurities onto an innocent Sheltie. I want to be the kind of person who doesn't think her dog is judging her, and finding her very much wanting. But I am not that person. I am weak, dammit. And Gracie's will to be anxiety provoking is strong.

So maybe it's not  just me. And it's not just Gracie. Maybe we're just wrong for each other. Breaking up was hard to do, but it was the right thing to do. It was a mutual thing.

I still love the little bitch, dammit.

Blue Willow

I am obsessed with Blue Willow.

And now you are disappointed.

After a several week absence, I return with what? A post about dishes? How sad. Nothing about poops or something embarrassing I did when I was 11, or details of my mom's sordid past, or something Brian said that I've twisted into an insult about my fatness?

Nope. It's all about stuff I want and lately all I want, among a lot of other things, is Blue Willow.

My first memories of Blue Willow are of some plates we had up at our cottage near The Pas, Manitoba. They were probably chipped cast offs from some long forgotten set of the prior owners of the cabin. But to me they were the most elegant and exotic things going. I remember thinking that they kind of proved that our family was, like, totally rich.

Dreams die hard wen you're young.

Anyway, so now I've been thinking about finally decorating our bedroom, and the motif on which I have settled is, you guessed it, Blue Willow.  White, with a couple different blues, and a soupçon of Chinoiserie.

I started by getting a big white dresser from IKEA (which i put together with only a little man-rage help from Brian and only putting something on backwards twice!). 

Yes. I've finally admitted that I am IKEA and not ABC Carpet and Home. I am everyman.

Next I have to refinish Brian's bedside table because he really likes it and it's awful. I need to learn how paint furniture. How much do you have to actually sand a piece before you can prime and paint? Like right down to the actual wood, or just enough to get the sheen of varnish/stain/whatever off of it?

I'd love to find this wallpaper, but I think Brian might put his foot down.

I've ordered a needlepoint pattern for a cushion, because what bed is complete without dog hair and an abundance of throw cushions for the cat to throw up on?

I'm a gonna makey this.

And when it's all done, I will sit in my bed with a posy of lily of the valley next to me and read books and talk to my cat. I will wear a bed jacket. Because that's what Castle's mom would do.

Gently darling, your
 auntie's hung

And for those of you who are still waiting for something more typical of me...

Poop.

The Secrets of Our Parents.

I'm visiting my mom.

I love my mom a lot. But I've said that before.

I think it's a universal thing -  kids don't see their parents as human beings, individuals with their own hopes, dreams, disappointments, failings, etc., until they are adults themselves.

 Parents are - ideally - food, affection and car key giving automatons, whose sole purpose is to provide their offspring with the necessities of life, plus a bunch of other crap that the other kids at school get because their parents have a great gig at Manitoba Hydro.

And then little by little you find out details of your parents' lives that you can relate to:

 first loves, 

addiction to online shopping








inexplicable urges to binge drink

lack of athletic prowess, 

or what have you.

And sometimes you find out things about your parents that take you completely by surprise. We find out things about our parents, dark secrets we wish we could bleach out of our consciousness, and go back to seeing them as the man in the La-Z-Boy watching Monty Python re-runs, and the woman eating orange peels while she reads improving literature.

This has happened to me.

I have discovered that my mom is money-crazed.

Now, we're good Scottish folk, and being a bit tight with my pursestrings, I should not have been surprised, but still, some things don't need to be screamed out for all to see.

Or at least not written down clearly in a day-book on the kitchen counter.

My mom is super organized. Every aspect of her day is planned and each errand or activity is written out and then gets crossed off as they are completed.

So, I guess she was just being thorough when she wrote down the following entry. This is what my mom has planned for April 14, 2013.

And it's all she has planned for that day, apparently.

Does she have some hideaway where she secrets off to, to roll around in wads of cash, gold coins  and pearls spilling out of ancient chests? 

 litlnemo/Flickr

Or does she go somewhere where someone else counts her cash for her, while she stand behind him holding a gun? 

Do we ever really know our parents?

So if my mom has to set aside an entire day to count her money, that means she must have a crapload of dough, right? She's a pretty good counter, so I imagine she could count pretty high in, say, an 8 hour period.

This brings to mind that for Christmas, I got pot scrubbers.

In spite of her secret, I continue to adore my mommy. And not because I expect that she'll ever share her wealth with me. No. I know she's going to donate it all to the church because she's so damned churchy. No. I love her because she's excellent.

Except at skiing.

She kinda sucks at that.