Nearer My Dog to Thee

Clifford was always a little crazy, but he is becoming more neurotic by the day. He follows us around the house: "Do you love me now? Do you love me now? How about now?" He is a legendary digger (we'd get calls from the neighbors at our old house saying, "Clifford's got his head stuck under the fence again."). But lately he's been digging IN the house, rooting through closets and messing up furniture. And when he's left outside unwatched for more than one minute, he immediately digs under the fence to run...to the back door. To be with us again. ("How about now? Do you love me now?). He did it today while I was on the phone with Chad, appearing at the back door after a slog through the muddy flower bed. From one angle, he looked like a brown dog.

Stricken by sudden-onset separation anxiety at the age of 9, he desperately wants to be with us every single moment. He sleeps in Lucy's room, or he scratches on our bedroom door to be let in just to put his nose on my hand. The poor dog needs anti-anxiety meds. Or therapy. Or maybe a walk.

Tired

I have been in Dallas since Sunday night having lots of meetings. And, as empty as that might sound, these have been four of the most productive days of my career. But I am tired. I am tired in my smile, my handshake, my knees, my butt, my BRAIN (the listening, feeling, strategizing, politicking, small-talking, LOVE ME/PICK ME regions of the brain). I list between bold confidence and paralytic insecurity. I feel like I have spent four days running for office.

Oh, and I am supposed to be in Philly, but it is snowing in Dallas. IN MARCH. And the people I love are in Austin.

Like a Sailor

I am walking through the house with Cass, the architect, discussing paint and flooring. Jason is in the other room, discussing whether or not Lu is going to watch TV.

Lu, losing the argument, says loudly, "Dammit!"

Cass and I freeze. I hear silence from Jason in the other room. Cass and I squelch laughter. Jason, collecting himself, stands firm in his anti-TV position (and wins, I should note), without acknowledging the cuss word.

So, um, we have a swearing problem at our house. As much as I'd like to think she learned it from those thugs at school, I am pretty sure she learned it from me. We need some kind of strategy for correcting her, except for the part where we can't stop laughing. It's funny. Dammit.

Thriller Still Thrills Me

Michael Jackson. Michael. Jackson. Take a moment to remember how great he was before he completely lost his mind. When I was ten years old, I listened to my "Thriller" tape so much I wore it out. I was moved by the music — physically moved. I won't describe the moves themselves, just know that I not only had visions of breaking it down in the cafeteria of Berkman Elementary, I had actual routines (which were, mercifully, never performed).

There is a seminal piece of music in Lu's future. One that will define how she relates to the world, shake off her parents' taste and stake her own musical territory. It's just not as good as this one.

Idle Parenting

Lucy does not take ballet or judo. She does not have playdates. We do not do enriching activities. She goes to school and comes home and plays quietly by herself for hours at a time. We ignore her until she invites us to participate ("Mom, sit here. You're in my class. Don't talk, just listen."). This just-getting-by school of parenting, like so many things in my life, is a tremendous source of guilt. But today, a friend at work sent me this article, and I feel liberated. The author makes a strong case for leaving kids alone, arguing that the neglect of their developing minds helps them, uh, develop. On their own.

So far, so good. I am proud to report that Lucy has never once said to me, "I'm bored."

Genetic Condition: Need to Have Last Word

This morning on the way to school, Lu and I were arguing strenuously about what season it was. She insisted it was fall because some of the trees have leaves and some don't (I didn't have the energy to explain deciduous, semi-deciduous and evergreen trees in temperate climates).

"Babe, it's winter."
"Nuh uh."
"Uh huh."
"Nuh uh."
"Ask Ms. Robinson, she will tell you it's winter."
"No, she won't."
"I know: did the groundhog see his shadow?"
"Yes."
"And what does that mean?"
"Six more years of winter."
"See, winter. Wait, not six more years. Six more weeks."
"No, six more YEARS!!! Six more years, Mom."

As I drove away, I shouted out the window, "Bye, Lu, I love you. Six more weeks!" From my rearview mirror, I could see her yelling "SIX MORE YEARS."

Overheard

For Valentine's Day, Jason bought Lucy a kitchen set for her dollhouse. It requires intricate assembly of furniture and setting a tiny table with flatware the size of fingernail clippings, among other things. As they're in her room rushing to assemble things before we take Lu to Pie's house, so we can have a DATE (you know, for Valentine's Day), I hear:

Lucy: "DAMMIT!"
Jason: "Lucy, what did you just say?"
Lucy: "Dammit."
Jason: "That is not a nice word."
Lucy: "Let's just set the table, Dad."