Posted by Lily on Feb 27, 2009 in
Uncategorized Early on in the blog I was slowly introducing all the animal members of our family. I never finished and figured by this point people were way more interested in that new human member that showed up. I’ve decided it was time to finish the introductions. So here is Sam. Sometimes talked about, but never formally introduced.
Sam is a maybe 7yr old black retriever mix. They age dogs by their teeth, but Sam spent the first couple of years eating rocks, which ended up perhaps making his teeth look older than he really is. So we say 7, but he could be anywhere from 6-8yrs old. He was rescued from the brink of imminent death by a friend of a neighbor. There was a lot of flooding a few years ago in the NC mountains and hundreds of dogs were flushed out. They tried to give as many as they could homes, but there just weren’t enough homes so they were being lined up and euthanized. But this friend of a neighbor saw this dog’s eyes and grabbed him.
Sensing weakness our neighbor called us over. We were in the market for a dog, any dog, that would play with Serena and drain some of the “puppy” energy she still had way past puppyhood. It was a perfect match. He was (and still is) the only dog that accepted Serena for who she is, a dog that thinks she is a cat that thinks it is human.
He didn’t come without baggage. He brought mange into the house, which was awesome. I’ll leave it at that. He also has a rare abnormality with his bladder that means he cannot balance the pH of his urine. Through trials and tribulations and our wonderful vet, it was worked out. He also had obviously been badly abused in his prior life. A broken tail, and a broken spirit. It was weeks before he’d come into the house, and weeks more after that before he’d let John get near him. He would cower if we raised our voice, only in the last year have we been able to sternly tell him no, without him running and hiding. If you pick an object up suddenly such as a broom or mop, he cowers. He was terrified of the hose and still gives you a wide berth if you pick one up. Thunderstorms incite panic.
But never has there been a sweeter dog.
A dog that now has his own baby.
Last night, we had our first thunderstorm since Cameron was born. Per usual routine, within minutes there were dogs all over the bed. Well, really Serena all over the bed, but it feels like a pack has descended. John and I (in a 4am haze) were trying to figure out where Sam was, because he is usually the first up on top of us during a storm. Then John saw him.
Curled up with his head on the side of Cameron’s bed, just looking at Cameron. Making sure his baby was o.k. through the storm.
After the storm Sam took his head off the bed, but didn’t leave his side.
Sam’s a good boy.
Posted by Lily on Feb 19, 2009 in
Uncategorized Monday
9:00pm: Cameron asleep in his own bed (in parent’s room).
3:00am: Cameron awake and hungry. Out of his bed to eat, back in it to sleep.
5:00am: Cameron awake and hungry. Out of his bed to eat, parents exhausted, everyone went back to sleep in parent’s bed.
Tuesday
9:00pm: Cameron asleep in his own bed.
3:00am: Cameron awake and hungry. Out of his bed to eat, back in it to sleep.
5:00am: Cameron awake and hungry. Out of his bed to eat, parents more exhausted, everyone went back to sleep in parent’s bed.
Wednesday
9:00pm: Cameron asleep in his own bed.
3:00am: Cameron awake and hungry. Out of his bed to eat, back in it to sleep.
5:00am: Cameron awake and hungry. Out of his bed to eat. Didn’t eat. Not actually hungry. Smiled at parents and then promptly went back to sleep with them in their bed.
It is hard to describe the feeling of being bested by a four month old at 5 o’clock in the morning.
Posted by Lily on Feb 6, 2009 in
Cameron,
parenting We have a debate in our house about when exactly Cameron is 4 months old. I say now, as he is 16 weeks, but John says no, not until 2/14, when it will have been four months date wise. Ultimately John is probably right as the 4 month check-up isn’t until 2/17. So this apparently is the magic age where he goes from weeks to months. Yet another sign of growing. I technically can’t call him my newborn or wait in the newborn waiting area anymore. It is only separated from the well-child area by a door, but it was a protective-I-still-have-a-nugget-who-needs-extra-special-care door.
There have been lots of developments for little man Cam. He has total control over his head (which he has actually had for awhile, I’ve just been neglect in my reporting), solid trunk strength (although balance is a little wonky still, so he can’t yet sit unassisted), grabs stuff…
Puts any and everything into his mouth…
Chatters and laughs constantly, sucks his lip, sucks his fingers, sucks his thumb…
And most importantly in his ever expanding world, rolls over .
He only does it about once a day after a long, drawn out, dramatic conversation of shrieks and grunts and wails and more grunts. Yet somehow he does it. Then he looks around on his stomach for awhile, very proud of his accomplishment for about five minutes and then gets mad that he is on his belly. Unfortunately he has not mastered the art of flipping back over.
He leads a tough life.
He is now sleeping in his own bed, although it is next to ours. I had a much more difficult time with the transition then he did. In fact I’m not sure he really noticed. His sleeping patterns are exactly what they were in our bed. Soon we will transition him to the other side of the room, and then eventually to his own room. First we have to show him his own room because I think he has spent approximately 30 seconds there.
He also has developed an affinity for a security blanket. He has lots and lots of blankets and I’ve been giving them to him since he was born to see if he likes one more than another. He hasn’t shown any interest in them. However, there was one that somehow hadn’t gotten in the mix of blankets, so I washed it the other day and gave it to him and he LOVED it. Grabbed it, rubbed it, chewed it, can’t get enough of it.
It is the twin of my security blanket when I was little. Literally the twin. My mom found it in a closet at their house one time when I was visiting before he was born. So he now has his security blanket.
There are a million small things that also continue to change everyday. He grows and develops and changes it seems almost from one nap to the next. He becomes more enjoyable with every change and seems more alert and interested in the world. He fills our hearts up in ways we didn’t actually know were possible and we now get why people have more than one child. Because for awhile there we wondered if there was some sadistic gene we were missing that caused people to enjoy the early weeks of the newborn life.
But now we totally get it.
Posted by Lily on Feb 3, 2009 in
Cars The only vehicle other than a Volvo that I ever really wanted was a pick-up truck. I believe this was something I wanted before I ever moved to the south, but honestly I’m not sure. But oh, how I wanted a pick-up truck. Right after we got married, John indulged my secret southern fantasy. He then got me a pick-up truck. We traded the car that we’d gotten to replace the Volvo and got an absolute base model Ford Ranger. Well, we actually did get the nice sound system because this would be our over the road vehicle for trips back and forth to TN. But I’m talking no power anything. It was glorious.
Wanting to break away from my traditional naming patterns (the
Honda was named H
ondie), we decided to name the cars after characters from Harry Potter. I have no idea how we decided on this, but we did, and the truck affectionately become known as
Tonks. We loved
Tonks. We used her as a pick-up should be used loading her full of dirt, mulch,
Christmas trees, any and everything. She swallowed my first wedding ring. She was a part of our family.
She was not an extended cab.
We had a baby.
We didn’t think this would really be a problem because we had just bought an SUV prior to Bogey’s conception.
I got a job.
This job requires me to drop Cameron off with his grandmother and then John to pick him up. As I will never be in the same location, we can’t really do a car swap. We went over and over it every which way, but we could not get around needing a second vehicle that could transport a child. For awhile we thought about keeping Tonks and dropping to a base level of insurance and having three vehicles. Eventually John was the sensible one and pointed out that was just stupid. We could use that money towards something better, and with two drivers, we really didn’t need a third car.
It was heartbreaking. And now began yet another car search. We needed an inexpensive, safe, reliable used car. Hmmmm…… Can you see where I’m going with this? Oh yes, the Volvo drought was about to end. One weekend, John went all over the area bringing Volvo by Volvo back home for me to check out so we didn’t have to drag Cameron to every used car dealership in the area. It was pretty much a disaster. We decided to try one more place and just threw Cameron in the car and went. They even stayed open late for us.
And there is where we met Mrs. Figg. A sensible lady, on in the years, but still with a glint of her younger self. She has been well loved, with only one previous family who took her in for check-ups like clock work. It was a day of sadness and we are still mourning the loss of our beloved Tonks. But John is enjoying driving our luxurious SUV and I’m thrilled to be back in a Volvo.
.jpg)
.jpg)
Extra points to anyone who can name which Harry Potter character Mrs. Figg was WITHOUT looking it up.
Posted by Lily on Feb 3, 2009 in
Cars When I got my driver’s license at 16, my mom was out of town. At the time, my Uncle had offered up his 74′ Volvo (which had been my grandparents Volvo before that) for my mom to drive so I could have her younger Honda. But she was out of town. So when the Volvo arrived at the house, supposedly to sit until her return, I intervened. I fell in love with it. Apparently deep down inside of me, I was a Volvo girl. My mom never even got to sit in it before I had claimed it as my own.
I loved that car. It had its oddities as many old Volvos do. If you accelerated too quickly at an intersection a big air hose would pop off and hit the underside of the hood, making a dramatic sound as if a condor had just crash landed on your car. You just had to hop out, open the hood and whack it back on, then you were fine to go. If you got up to highway speeds it would start smoking, but you really only noticed it once you slowed down. The air conditioning had long since stopped working and the heat was perpetually on. This made summers in the south a bit cumbersome, but my Grandfather installed a fan that helped cool me off. The radio was long dead, but after a summer of hard work for my dad, he purchased a radio for me and then showed me how to install it. There were no bells or whistles, if there was power steering, it was iffy at best. But it was the greatest car I have, and probably will, ever own.
When it was time for me to pack up and go to college my dad gently informed me that it was time to say goodbye to The Volvo. There was no way it was making the trek to and from Wisconsin and it probably couldn’t take a Wisconsin winter. I was older now, so I handled the news with a little more grace than I had the news of Alfie, but I was still heartbroken.
For a little while.
This time, instead of a stuffed Volvo, I was offered something even grander. A real Volvo replacement. Well, actually I was given a budget and told to research what cars were available in that range. I had to take into account safety, durability, winter prowess, and reliability. I pretty much narrowed it down to a new Honda Civic or a used Volvo. Again, my mom left town. My dad and I started perusing the dealerships after hours. I found my new baby. She was beautiful. A fully equipped (winter package included) used Volvo 850. A shiny variation on the beautiful dulled green of my other Volvo. She of course was a little outside the budget, but I had worked all through high school so I contributed my savings to her purchase. Again my mom arrived home to yet another Volvo sitting in her driveway.
This one lasted me through college and was wonderful. There were adventures only a college car goes through, and she went through plenty. Once I returned to NC after college, John in tow, she started to show signs of wear. Those who have or have had Volvos know this doesn’t mean it is their demise, because you can fix a Volvo forever. But newly graduated, trying to figure out what to do with our lives, we didn’t have much money. What money we did have wasn’t budgeted for car repairs. As she was still worth a good chunk, we figured it was probably a good time to trade her in for a more reliable vehicle. I put an ad in the newspaper and on the last day it ran, I got a phone call. She was sold at my asking price to a kind pastor and his family, his children eagerly awaiting the arrival of The Volvo.
We did not replace her with a Volvo, and thus began the Volvo drought in my life.
Posted by Lily on Feb 2, 2009 in
Cars I have always developed bizarre, close bonds with inanimate objects. Toys. Stuffed animals. Cars. I began the car bond long before I ever drove. We’re talking young. Like four years old. My father, the great car connoisseur, had a couple of amazing cars when we were little, my favorite being Alfie, the Alpha Romeo. (I was also very clever with naming. ”Furry” the furry dog, “Teddy” my teddy bear. You get the picture.) I LOVED Alfie. He was the hero on the day my mom’s purse got stolen as he came bounding into the park, driving to our rescue. He transported me to my most important day of show and tell when my father managed to shove a four foot stuffed snake and two little girls into a two door Alpha Romeo. He forever stunted my language development as I was convinced if it began with the sound “Alf” it was Alpha. So when by guinea pigs needed their Alfalfa, I gave them their Alpha Alpha. My parents tried gently to explain that one to me, but gave up pretty quickly.
Then one day, Alfie was gone. I’m sure there were preambles and reasons why and it was explained,
yada yada, but to my four year old brain, my parents took my heart, went around behind a building, threw it to the ground and stomped on it a few times. And then sold Alfie. I was inconsolable. I’m sure if anyone were to have heard my wailing they would have been convinced a close relative or beloved pet had died. Eventually my poor parents (by this time conclusively deciding I was their last child) ran around trying to find the one thing that might, just might, end the cascade of tears they faced at home. For if there was one thing I could possibly like as much as Alfie, it would be a stuffed version of Alfie. Brilliance on their part. They arrived home with stuffed Alfie and I was quieted. And it wasn’t until I was older (read a couple of years ago) that I looked at stuffed Alfie and discovered he was actually a Ford
Thunderbird. And a couple of birthdays ago I was given a gift that meant more than almost any gift I’ve received, a framed picture of Alfie that now hangs in our kitchen. I believe it was hung before our wedding pictures.
.jpg)