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$570 versus $50.  For us, there was no decision.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, we *like* our dog.  Errr….ahem…okay, fine.  There are moments when we are not actively planning her demise.  But with my current state of employment (as in, Not) and just our general frugal nature when it comes to our animals, we both resoundingly voted on the Humane Society $50 spay value package.  Which we think was the spaying where the anesthesia was applied via a billy club or a shot or two of cheap whiskey.

In any event, today was the big day.  She left all spunky and full of ire at her non-fed state.  She returns a humble, doped-up dog.  I know that it’s probably the morphine but I think she got the message when I chirpily told her that if she didn’t straighten her act up behavior-wise, she would come back to the Humane Society to Live Permanently.  I am pretty sure her decision was made when she didn’t see a rawhide, chew toy or clean crate anywhere in the building.

When I went to drop her off this morning, she was not having any of it.  Dogs are supposed to like smells but I think that this place overwhelmed her.  It smelled…suspect.  The people were absolutely nice behind the counter but nowhere near as professional as the front office staff and vet techs at our veterinarian’s office.  I know…what did I expect?  The staff at the vet’s office all wear scrubs, the office is pristinely clean and sterile but not hospital-smelling or overpowering and the atmosphere is relaxed-professional.  The atmosphere at the Humane Society was…cluttered, and although I could not point to a spot and call it dirty, everything felt dirty, old and worn out.  Obviously, this is because they cycle through hundreds and hundreds of animals.  And I realize that this is a service organization.  I know.  But I noticed it as a part of my experience and don’t want anyone to go this route without realizing that you get exactly what you Do Not pay for.

After a few minutes, a man (presumably a vet tech) came out and summoned me into a room.  He put Rosie in a holding cell (read: metal cage) and I am not even joking, he took the top of the sedation medicine needle off with his teeth, squirted about half of it dramatically in the air and said, “You know that medicine they give you before surgery that makes you feel drunk?” and kind of waggled his eyebrows and moustache at me.  And that doesn’t even communicate how weird that situation was.  I booked a hasty retreat.

I had to pick her back up at around 4:00 or so and I went straight from picking the kids up at school.  We were early and the lady behind the desk said that we were more than welcome to go look at the animals who were up for adoption.  I think she was hoping that we would be interested in taking one home.  Ha.  Anyway, we toured the puppy room–which was filled with so many different puppies.  And 90% of them were barking their heads off.  Which was oddly reassuring and very loud.  We then toured the absolutely quiet cat room.  This actually saddened me the most because every cage was filled and I knew that the turnover for the cat room was probably very high.  Finally, we made it into the adult dog room.  It was much quieter than the puppy room which gives me hope that eventually, dogs do stop barking their fool heads off all of the time.  There were only about fifteen dogs in that room.  As we were leaving, my daughter busted into tears and said, “We can’t find Rosie anywhere!”  I assured her that Rosie was some place else and we were just waiting for her to be ready to come home.

Finally, we were able to pick up the dog.  And she was perfectly fine.  Very drugged but fine.  Except for the fact that she was literally laying in her own poo.  I suppose that’s what the other $520 is for.  So that your dog isn’t smeared in poo when you go to pick her up.  I…um…brought the poo situation to the attention of the vet tech in the room and she said, “Well…”  And I politely asked if she had anything that we could use to wipe her off and she rummages around and produces a washcloth.  She half-heartedly wipes the dog off and says, “Okay, she’s free to go” even though there were still clumps of poo on Rosie’s back.

After I reapplied my jaw to my face, I walked out and did as much poo-control as I could manage with three mostly-dry baby wipes I had stashed in the car.  I promptly called Bryan and I think I said the word ‘poo’ forty-seven times in our conversation.  The kids were chanting ‘poo’ in a singsongy chorus.  I cannot get over the poo.

We got out of the car (she was mostly able to get into the car by herself and completely able to get out by herself) and she looked up at me, squatted and peed the most pee I have ever seen the dog produce.  It was inspiring–if you are inspired by that kind of thing.  After a few minutes, Drew said, “Mom, the dog is peeing…like, a STREAM!”  And he was correct.  I then took her around back where she poo’d a bit–which she managed to step in in her drugged state.  Because that’s the way we roll around here.  I wet down a washcloth and scrubbed her down as best I could.  Eventually, though, it was apparent that she just needed to get inside and lay down so I had to stop, take a deep, sustaining breath and let her go inside.

As her aroma wafts up toward me (she’s sleeping in her crate next to me), I am not convinced that her coat is poo-free.  But more disturbingly, she smells like the Humane Society.  And that’s unsettling.  And not a pleasant smell at all.  Even worse than wet dog smell.  Even worse than her at her very worst smell.  But not quite as bad as the poo smell.

And here’s the thing.  Evidently, I am not allowed to bathe her for 10 DAYS!  I think I am going to spend the extra $520 on an ultra-deep cleansing bath for her and my house and my car as soon as she’s cleared.

So far, the Humane Society spaying situation was fine.  Perfect?  No.  We weren’t expecting it to be.  Do I wish I could have picked up the same dog I sent in terms of cleanliness?…Resoundingly ‘yes’.  But as long as you go armed with the ability to dispel the reek of poo and Humane Society, everything should be fine.  I will definitely keep you updated on her and the poo situation.

Poo.

When I was sixteen, I worked at the local Dairy Queen.  I very much enjoyed working there, surprisingly.  But for YEARS afterward, I could NOT eat Dairy Queen ice cream at all.  And Dairy Queen Blizzards are GOOD!  What’s really weird is that I don’t really like any kind of ice cream like I used to before I worked there.  I think I eat ice cream maybe once every year or two.  Strange, huh?

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Seven years ago I found out I was pregnant with our first child.  I was working as a teacher and very much enjoying my job and my coworkers.  When contracts came out for the next year, I sat in the Principal’s office and told her that I would be resigning my position to become a full-time stay at home mom.  She offered me a part-time position.  I declined.

My husband and I always knew that I would stay at home when we decided to have a family.  It was something I insisted on and we agreed to BEFORE we got married.  And we got married at an embarrassingly young age.  So I was pretty set on staying at home with our kids.  We had planned our lives around it, actually.  We made house, car and financial decisions based on the fact that I would be out of work while our kids were little.  I was *very* idealistic (actually snotty and judgmental, in retrospect) about staying at home.  “Why have a child just to put him or her in daycare?”  “Daycare is NEVER as good as a Mother’s love.”  Etc, etc, ad nauseum.  I truly could not understand how women would want to birth these beautiful, precious children and then drop them off at hell daycare and then complain about having to be apart from them.  My opinion was if you wanted to have children, and you wanted to be home with them, you should give up your career, house, nice cars, etc.  You should suck it up and do whatever you had to do.  It was completely a matter of choice.  I chose to stay at home and we chose to make the sacrifices necessary for me to do so.  I more so respected those women who outright said, “I WANT to work and I DO NOT want to stay at home”, but I still secretly felt like they shouldn’t have had a child to begin with.  I am mortified to admit these things.

When my son came into the world, I like to say that he blew up my life.  People try to tell you how having a baby changes things but that’s kind of like describing colors to a blind person.  You can possibly conceptualize it but it’s impossible to truly adequately describe.  Oh, I loved my son dearly.  He was an absolute joy.  I didn’t think so at the time, but after having his sister, I realize what an easy baby he was.  I think now that with Drew, I suffered from post-partum depression but did not realize it.  It only became evident to me when we had our daughter and I did NOT suffer from it how bad I really was when my son was born.  I assumed it was normal for people to feel stiflingly overwhelmed, exceedingly tired and ‘down’ with a newborn.  And I think, to some degree, everyone *does* feel that way at times, but the constancy of those feelings left me mired.  I am just so grateful now that he was such a fat, cherubic, happy little guy because his contagious belly laugh (which started unusually early) and his all-around good nature made it so I didn’t wade very far into depression.

Somewhere along the line, I began to feel a quiet discomfort.  I started to realize that staying at home wasn’t everything I thought it would be.  Maybe those feelings began with the birth of our son or maybe later.  I just remember feeling like my life, energy and purpose were completely wrapped up in the four walls of the house.  I am the first to admit that I am not a very good housewife.  My house is NEVER completely clean, there are always dirty dishes in the sink and I am an abysmal meal planner and cook.  I have never gotten the hang of keeping my house together.  I think the constant sense of failure in those areas coupled with the overwhelming responsiblity I felt about being a good parent made it hard for me to let go and savor this time at home with my kids.

All of these feelings kind of came to a head this year.  Both of my kids are in full-time school and I feel like I have checked the box in terms of doing what I can do.  The thought was that I would start back to work but when there weren’t any positions available, I began to realize that I was desperately ready to Do Something Different.
I have spent the last six years of my life being the primary parent, the primary disciplinarian, the primary housekeeper, the primary everything.  And it’s frustrating in a way that only other stay at home moms can understand.  My husband thinks he would LOVE to stay at home with the kids.  And he probably would…for a little while.  It’s not the fortieth day of being at home that gets you, it’s the collection of four hundred or a thousand that get you.  If my husband started staying at home right now, his experience would not equate to the accumulated wear and tear infanthood, potty training, terrible twos, threes and (evidently now) fours have had.  My best friend (also a stay at home mom for the exact same length of time) and I have discussed this often and I like to say that being a stay at home mom is kind of like Chinese Water Torture.  Except during this torture, you’re sitting in the most comfortable massaging chair, being fed amazing food.  At first, it seems marvelous and with only the little drip of water directly between your eyes every few minutes, nothing could be better.  I mean, you’re LUCKY to be able to do this.  And people would LOVE to trade places with you.  And it’s only a drip of water, fercryinoutloud.  But after a while, you get tired of the damn water drip on your forehead.  And a little while later, the water drip is all you can think about and even the comfortable chair and great food aren’t enough to overcome the stupid drip.  And eventually, you’re just trapped and the massage stopped feeling good a long time ago and it doesn’t matter how much dark chocolate you’re being fed me, you just want to get UP and out from under the DRIP!

And imagine feeling GUILTY because you’re supposed to be ENJOYING and SAVORING this time in the chair.  It’s a BLESSING that not everyone is able to have.

And maybe it’s not like that for everyone but it feels like that for me.  And the water dripping on my forehead is a collection of things.  It’s the burden of primary responsibility, it’s the constant feeling of redoing the same thing over and over and kind of sucking at it every time, it’s the repetitiveness of the chores, it’s the fact that sometimes, I am afraid that I am literally losing IQ points from lack of brain use.   It’s the guilt because I am supposed to be SAVORING this and I’m not.  It’s the guilt because Bryan gets home and enjoys the kids so much more in the two hours he parents than in the twelve hours I do.  It’s the fact that I Know I am losing the war with frustration and patience.  It’s that poor grammar no longer sounds “wrong” and I can’t determine whether “I hurted my finger” is incorrect or not.  It’s that maybe, just maybe, I would like to define myself with more than just my children.  Not that they aren’t a BIG part of my definition, because they are.  But maybe I would like to have a sense of challenge and accomplishment that doesn’t revolve around the appearance of the mildew ring around the toilet’s water line.

And like with many things in my life, I look back on my condescending idealism and I just want to walk back in time and smack myself…hard.  I was such a judgmental bitch.  I survived (barely and with fewer brain cells, obviously) my time at home with the kids without having to put them into “horrible day care” (HA!) but I can’t say for certain that I or my kids are truly better off for it.  Obviously, there are advantages to me being at home.  It’s NO BIG DEAL if one of my kids gets sick with strep and croup, starts sounding like Gollum when she coughs and has to stay home from school for THREE ENTIRE DAYS.  We, as a family, have had the freedom to take off whenever we wanted to do whatever we wanted…which is something we didn’t take advantage of often enough.  There are a ton of advantages to me being home with them but I KNOW NOW that there would be a ton of advantages if I had kept working or had gone back to work earlier.

We are at the point, financially, where surviving (barely) on one income is not only tiresome, it’s impossible.  We’ve gone this long using creative finances and making huge sacrifices and I’m not sure I would recommend our path to anyone.  And it’s just ironic as hell that now that I’ve FINALLY checked the box and fulfilled my end of the bargain with myself, I CANNOT GET A JOB TO SAVE MY LIFE.

That’s not to say that being jobless with the kids in full-time school is ALL that bad.  I mean, I have NO CHILDREN at all during the day.  Which means I have limitless options, right?  OH YEAH, WE HAVE A DOG NOW!  Besides the dog,  I am thoroughly enjoying this aspect of staying at home.  I would love to be working but since it isn’t working out, I have been taking grocery store trips, sans children, running all of the normal, everyday errands without having to fight the tidal wave of trying to get everyone out of the door just to take the trash approximately one mile to the trash compactor.  I manage to keep myself very busy.  The time I spend in car rider drop-off and pick-up lines alone should entitle me to medical benefits.  I’ve also been making the effort to revitalize some of my poverty-striken brain cells.  I’ve started taking a Spanish class twice a week, volunteering at my son’s school at least once a week and I am considering starting in on my Master’s Degree (although that may not work out–see above paragraph).  I plan on doing some more consistent writing and exploring some freelance photography possibilities.  (Anyone wanna buy a print?  Help a poor white girl go to grad school?  Not working for me, huh???)

Would I do it over again?  Obviously, that’s a hard one to answer.  I really, really enjoyed my job at Dairy Queen but was it worth giving up my intense love of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup Blizzards?  My thighs say ‘Yes’.  And I gained a lot having worked there.  But when it was time to quit, I moved onto something different.

The difference here is that this isn’t just about creamy deliciousness.  It’s about doing what I felt was the right thing FOR ME to do concerning my kids.  Maybe I generalized what was the right decision for me into what ’should be’ the right decision for everyone but the fact remains that I probably would have even more major regrets and guilt if I hadn’t stayed at home.  I certainly haven’t been trapped under the water torture by anything other than my own idealism.

Either way, I can’t change the decisons I/we made back then.  I appreciate that I got to fulfill my desire to stay at home but I recognize that it’s time to do something different.  Now, it’s just a matter of what and when.