Strays
August 4th, 2009 § Leave a Comment
I don’t have children. That’s not an apology, or a plea for someone to fertilize me, its a mere statement if only to illustrate the depth of another love I have for children of a different sort, I have two dogs.
When you get to be over 30, there are two questions strangers lead with when trying to get to know you better, “are you married” and “do you have children.” While I am fine with my answers to both these questions, I find that others react to my lack of husband and children, akin to if I told them I was dying of cancer.
I have since developed an annoying nervous response to their prodding, which usually plays out like this:
Complete stranger who has accomplished the level of wife and mother: “Do you have kids?”
Me: “ No” (trying not to convey any tone that could be misconstrued as disappointment) “but I have two dogs.!”(in a tone that conveys enthusiasm far exceeding that which is appropriate.)
I’m not sure if they take offense because my comment cheapened the sanctity of their children or because I over glorify the relationship between dog and ”parent”.
When I was younger I wanted a dog so badly but my brother’s allergies and my mom’s unwillingness proved formidable obstacles. Every pet store we passed I would beg my mom to let me go in and “just look”. I knew every attempt was futile and I would leave every visit empty handed. But I soon discovered another route to dog ownership…strays.
My first stray dog encounter happened on my way home from school. At ten years old, I operated off one rule, the golden rule of “finders keepers”. The fact that the dog had a collar on was inconsequential. He was unleashed and undeniably in love with me. It was our destiny to be together forever. From now on it was me and my new dog, Winston. He looked 100% like a Winston, and if dogs picked names for themselves, I was sure this would be the one name out of all the other names in the world he would choose. It certainly wouldn’t be Max, as his tag mislabeled him.
We continued our journey home and if Winston strayed too far, I would call his name in a high pitched squeaky voice that made him trot back enthusiastically every time, further proving his name was perfect. When I got to my house I yelled for my grandmother and tried to contain the enthusiasm that was dripping out of every inch of my body. I needed to convince her this nuisance of a dog followed me home and I was now faced with the unfortunate responsibility of caring for him. Surely my unwillingness to welcome Winston with open arms would prove to her this was more about fate and destiny, than it was about my desire to have Winston for my own. After one quick glance, it was clear the love Winston and I shared was contained between us. Not only was she upset that I brought this scruffy dog into the house, but he clearly “belonged to someone else” and she told me to take him back to where I found him. With a heavy heart, I walked Winston back to the park where I found him. As we walked, I cried and he chased unsuspecting birds. Broken hearted that I wasn’t able to make good on the life I promised him, I kissed Winston goodbye and wished him well in his life as Max.
Undeterred, my tendancy to find stray dogs and take them home has extended well into adulthood. I’ve been late to meetings at work because a stray darted across the street. I’ve chased a stray dog down train tracks in an outfit far too fancy to be doing so. I carry treats in my trunk to will the less willing, and I do it because I figure they wouldn’t be put in my path, if I wasn’t supposed to notice them.
Dogs fill the empty spaces in life, they are magic that way.
We clean their poop, wipe the goop out of their eyes and let them give us face kisses with their floppy tongues. Dogs love us. They sit with us when we cry, lick our wounds and stand at the door waiting patiently for us to re-enter their world.
We love them because they sprinkle us with their fur, mark us with their drool and make their way up onto the beds we swore they were never allowed on. And all we have to do is be exactly like we are.
Someday I will be able to say I have children, my desire to be a mom is undeniable. But for now, I don’t have kids but, “I have two dogs!”
Friday Night and Some Potter
August 3rd, 2009 § Leave a Comment
This month, Paul and I celebrate our one-year anniversary. Long gone are the days where our weekends required an overnight bag and a full tank of gas to make the 40 mile trek that separated us. Our weekends have become simple and unceremonious and I love that.
We kicked off this weekend like any 30 something trendy couple would do by watching Harry Potter and ordering in from Islands. Side note, if you are a fan of something that tastes delicious, I highly recommend the Bikini Beach Veggie Tacos – they are my new crack. And by crack I mean nothing even remotely like crack.
Paul and I want to see the new Harry Potter movie – see it in the sense that we want to eventually see it – not in the “we want to see it so bad we are going to camp in front of the theatre in our wizard outfits and paint lighting bolt scars on our heads” kind of see it. Neither of us could remember which Harry Potter movies we’ve seen or how the last few ended. So we figured, before we see the new Harry Potter movie we needed to brush up on Harry past.
So, we rented the 4th Harry Potter movie. The name already escapes me but it appeared to be much of the same. It had that cribbage game which still makes little sense to me, a highly risky competition that any parent would frown upon their school sponsoring and more creepy teachers that proved Hogwarts clearly has no background checks for teachers. Further adding to my theory that Hogwart’s is a public school.
The really annoying thing is that Harry Potter really should have caught on to the world of magic after, let’s say movie 3. Really Harry? You’re still unfamiliar with wizard terminology? And why, after all this time are you so surprised at things all your friends are already privy to? Come on Harry, the charming innocent befallen gig is getting old. While I do still want to see the new Harry Potter movie, I am in no rush. I think I get the jist of it, Harry is in a dilemma, someone is trying to kill him, his scar will hurt, he will hold his forehead in angst and Hermine will roll her eyes in irritation at Harry and his ginger BFF, Harry will almost die, he will do some sort of magic aided by his dead protective parents to escape danger and everyone will rejoice. Roll credits.
Broken Homes
June 24th, 2009 § 2 Comments
The first time I told my mom I was engaged she responded, “To who?”
I was 18, he was 30 – we dated for 3 months. One trip to Hawaii later, I returned home with a shell ring on my finger and big ideas for the wedding.
We lived in a house on a cul-de-sac where I would scrapbook with the neighbors every Sunday night. He bought me a golden retriever for Christmas which I named Grommit. He had his own business, was financially stable and eventually bought me a pretty wedding ring that I would sometimes turn upside down to hide. We set the date for our wedding 6 months later only to postpone it 4 months later. Our engagement lasted for 2 years.
One morning, after he had left for work, I sat at the top of the stairs in our house cradling my Christmas dog crying. I kissed his wet nose slid my engagement ring off and placed it on the bathroom counter. And then I left the house for the last time.
Being engaged to him, especially to someone 12 years my senior, had put me in a frenzied state of trying to finish school so that I could have children right after we got married. Even though I wasn’t ready to be a mom, he was running out of time to be the ”young cool dad” that he always envisioned being. I quit my full time job to become a full time student, which meant I had given up my independence and stability. 2 weeks shy of my 21st birthday, I had never been so terrified walking out of that house and into the unknown future.
Walking away was difficult – but essential. I was in love with the idea of love. I loved knowing I would have someone by my side for the rest of time. It wasn’t until the wedding grew closer that I finally realized, I wasn’t in love with him, I was in love with the idea of marriage. While he was a wonderful safe and loving guy, I was far too young to be someones wife.
My parents divorced when I was 1 1/2 years old. Growing up in a divorced environment, I knew that no matter what mistakes I made, I would do everything in my power to ensure a failed marriage wasn’t one of them. I realize things happen, and statistically I have a 50% chance of it not working. I can however do my due diligence before getting married to make sure that the person I am marrying is someone I have no doubts about and have every intention of being with until my last days. This includes not marrying someone at 18 and after just 3 months of dating.
Sadly, far too many people get married too young, too soon or too quickly. I watched Jon and Kate last night and found no joy spying on their crumbling marriage. The episode was drenched in sadness and each of them had the same cold hard stare that people who are going through a separation adorn.
Watching the episode last night I realized for the first time that divorce is much harder on the parents than it is the children. As a child I had no idea what I was missing. I thought every normal child shuttled from each parents house every other weekend. I thought all daughters dreaded alone time with their fathers. To me it was normal and like most all other children I adjusted my world view accordingly. For the parents though it means missed first steps, shared or missed holidays, not being there for the first lost tooth. It means not being there to watch your children grow from day to day. It means missing the little moments in between the “every other weekends.”
It drives me crazy when people stay married “for the children”. I respect my mom much more for being strong enough to walk away from a situation she was unhappy in, even though it meant struggling to find her way. And although she didn’t do it gracefully she did it with strength and courage. That to me is far more admirable than someone who stays in a loveless marriage “for the children.” To me that seems more an excuse than it does a reason.
I tell my friends who are going through a divorce that the best thing they can do is to never speak negatively about their ex-spouse to their children. I have vivid memories of my father talking harshly about how much he hated my mom (I am generously paraphrasing here) only to have him say to me how much I remind her of him. To a child, hating their mother or father, is the same as hating them.
In 13 years, I am a long way from the girl that returned from Hawaii with a puka shell ring. Sometimes that part of my life seems so distant I almost wonder if it happened at all. And although I am thankful that it ended in a breakup and not a divorce–I do sometimes wonder just how my golden retriever is doing.
