Party of Five.

I can’t believe how much time has passed since my last blog entry.  In short form, I have:

1. Adopted Lulu, the runty Saint Bernard.
   She’s very mellow, spending approximately 23 hours and 45 minutes of each day happily sleeping on the couch.  And the other 15 minutes?  Those are spent snacking, of course.  I’m telling you, this dog was meant to be a part of our family.
   
2. Broken my toe.
   The night before we were going to pick up Lulu, Mason crawled headfirst into the cabinet in the television stand and got stuck.  I didn’t have my contacts in, and went running to rescue him from the tower of terror.  I had no idea how close I was to the cabinet, and slammed my 2nd toe into the woodwork with all of my portly force.  It bruised and swelled and hurt like a futhermucker, but it looks better now.  As a sidenote, do you know what the medical community does for a broken toe?  Not a damn thing.  Tape it to the toe next to it, and send you on your merry way.  They could have saved me umpteen hundred dollars by disclosing this little fact in the parking lot, doncha think?
3. Attended a baby shower with the Ladies Who Lunch.
   You know the type.  Highlighted, Louis Vuittoned, and botoxed & spray tanned & pilatesed to perfection.  And of course, the (long) little black dress I ordered didn’t arrive in time, so I had to wear an ill-fitting red sundress from my hippie bohemian days.  It was so uncomfortable.  There were 15 of us there, and they actually rearranged the tables in the restaurant so they could all sit together, away from us remaining four normal women.  It was like we weren’t even at the same party.
4. Survived Mason’s first night terror.  And his second, third, fourth, and fifth.
   Always when he’s overtired.  Always.  I’ve never heard horror like that coming out of my son’s mouth.  He was terrified, wide-eyed and screaming like a calf at the slaughterhouse.  I made the mistake of picking him up, which made me the monster in this dream he couldn’t wake up from.  It was terrible.  He didn’t know who I was or where he was, even with the lights on.  Since then, I read that the best thing to do is make sure he’s okay, but leave him in his crib to fall back asleep.  It’s so hard, but picking him up just brings me into the dream and disorients him more.  I hope he outgrows these soon.
5. Made it through another ear infection of Mason’s.
   He’s getting more teeth – I think the pointy ones are trying to come down, and they’re making him absolutely miserable.  Motrin makes him puke & Tylenol only takes a tiny bit of the edge off; so we try & go on a little field trip every day to take his mind off things.
6. Signed up for a photography class at the local tech college.
   It starts at 8:00 in the morning on my 37th birthday.  But hey!  At least my husband will be forced to spend some time taking care of Mason.  On his own.  Which he doesn’t like to do.  Suck it up, porkchop.  Momma needs an outlet, too.
7. Took Mason to the zoo for the first time.
   With a broken toe.  Made for a long day, but Mason got to spend some time with my 15-month-old niece away from my overbearing mother.
   
8. Attended a 90th birthday party.
   With Mason, who’s having some major separation issues and stranger anxiety.  It kicked in a few days ago, along with a massive Daddy complex.  He wants Daddy to hold him and play with him and feed him.  I’m just a second-class citizen.  Until next week, when Daddy leaves for England for 3+ weeks.
9. Found out our well water is probably contaminated with e. coli and/or arsenic.
   The water levels in this area have risen significantly, which is causing havoc with local wells.  We’re having a sample taken this week, but won’t get the results back until August 4th.  My fingers are crossed for the levels to be acceptable.  Mason only gets bottled water, so he’s okay – it’s just The Husband and I and the dogs.  But we really can’t afford the cost of digging a new well if the water is bad.
10. Called the cops on our idiotic neighbors on the 4th of July.
    They were shooting off M-80’s (also known as quarter sticks of dynamite!) during the middle of the afternoon.  They pulled the same crap last year, and we didn’t want to rock the boat because we were new.  However, this year, the floors shook & the windows rattled and all the commotion woke the baby.  Morons.  What kind of idiots use dynamite in a residential subdivision???

There’s been more, but it’s late and I need to get some sleep.  The last few nights, I’ve been having trouble staying asleep – getting up every 90 minutes to pee or get a drink.  This has to stop – I can barely string a sentence together, and am worried I’m going to give the baby a bottle made with powdered sugar instead of formula.

Mmmmmm.  Powdered sugar.  Must not think about doughnuts.
Must not think about doughnuts.
Must not think about doughnuts.

Am thinking about doughnuts.

Full disclosure.

So, thanks everyone for your kinds words re: the Charlie situation.  I miss her craziness and think about her a million times a day, but today was a little easier than yesterday or the day before that or the day before that.

I took Zoey to the groomer’s this morning, and found Charlie’s collar and leash in the car.  It was like pouring salt in an open wound, but I hid my tears from her and Mason and just kept moving forward.  It’s all I can do.

We’re already thinking about getting another dog.  She won’t replace Charlie, but Zoey is so lost; and I don’t know how else to help her.  She mopes around the house, only going outside when we force her to.  Granted, it’s been in the mid 90’s for the last few days; but it’s not the heat that’s bothering her.  I think she just misses her friend.

I spoke to someone at the vet’s office about it, and she said she wasn’t surprised that Zoey was grieving.  She said we could try giving her a little time; but another companion would probably do her good.  I just don’t know, though.  Making the decision to have Charlie put down was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.  What if we get a bad dog and have to go through all this again?

I wouldn’t get another puppy – only an older dog, most likely from a rescue organization.  I guess the rule of thumb is that children under six should only have a dog over two years old.

We actually found a small Saint Bernard on petfinder, and she sounds like she’d be a perfect fit for our family.  But she’s 7 years old already, and I was hoping to find one between 2-4.  And I’m still not convinced getting another dog so soon is the right thing to do.

In any case, this is Lulu.

I’m admit, I’m drawn to her; but I really need to give it a few more days.  Hopefully Zoey won’t die of a broken heart between now and then.  (I’m not trying to sound overly melodramatic here – I’ve read about this happening.)  I think I’ll have a better feel for the situation after the weekend.  I think we (I) need a little more time to mourn.

I had a long conversation with SUPER HEATHER! yesterday, and things didn’t go quite how I expected them to.  I knew her mother-in-law had adopted one of Charlie’s brothers, and that they gave him away.  Wilson (the dog) had bitten her MIL when she tried to take a rawhide out of his mouth when he was under a year old; but they told SUPER HEATHER! that they gave Wilson to some friends of theirs who lived on a farm.

It turns out that they actually brought him to the humane society, and DIDN’T disclose that the dog had food issues or that he had signs of agression or bitten anyone.  Bastards.  Wilson bit one of the handlers at the humane society (she required stitches), so he had to be quarantined for 7 days to rule out rabies or other health issues.  While in quarantine, he attacked another handler and had to be put down.

Charlie’s littermate bit 3 people in the span of a few days.  Don’t you think she should have called me as soon as she had this information?????  I would have watched Charlie a lot closer.  I’m sure Heather was trying to make me feel better – said I should be proud that we had 8 amazing years with her without any instances – but it really ticked me off.  She has two small children of her own – I would think she would want to know if her family pet came from a questionable bloodline.

In any case, I’m still carrying a tremendous amount of guilt for having her put down.  I swore I’d never be one of those people who treated their dogs like kings when they were childless, then cast the dog aside when the kids came.  Yet here I am, with only one dog, having thrown the other one out of the house and out of my life like yesterday’s garbage.

And I know people have judged me for this, thinking I’m a failure and that I made the wrong decision and a terrible mistake.  Maybe I did.   I don’t know.  But Mason is so little and so vulnerable, and I would do anything to protect him.

It was a no-win situation.  Which makes me a complete loser.

The one I hoped I’d never have to write.

I’ve always worried about Charlie.  From the very first day we met, she’s always had assorted quirks and oddities.  But she was easily the most affectionate and loving dog I’ve ever come across, and I like to think that she knew we saved her life.

You see, Charlie was part of an unplanned and unwanted litter of pups.  My dear friend, Heather, had an uncle-in-law who lived on a farm with a bunch of loose dogs running around.  Unfortunately, he was a mean, miserable son-of-a-beach, and never had his female dog fixed.  Surprise, surprise, she was the neighborhood tramp; and every time she bore a litter of pups, he would let her nurse them and bond with them; then throw them in a burlap bag and drown them in the nearby river.

That is, until SUPER HEATHER heard about his evil machinations!  She and her husband drove to his farm in the middle of the night, and puppynapped Charlie and her brothers and sisters.  They were so tiny – still needing to be bottle fed – and were deathly terrified of people.  But SUPER HEATHER was conveniently unemployed at the time, and was able to act as a surrogate mama to those five puppies.

As soon as I heard what she had done, I offered to help however I could.  I brought over puppy food and toys and blankets, and stopped every night after work to help change the kennel newspaper and take the puppies out for potty breaks.  After a few days, I noticed one of the puppies took a liking to me.  As soon as I walked through the door at SUPER HEATHER’s house and she heard my voice, she would cry and carry on and bark with all her squeaky puppy might.

And that was all it took.  I was in love.

I brought Charlie home to my modest little 2-bedroom ranch in the suburbs, where she proceeded to pee on every available surface while trying to blame poor Maggie for her indiscretions.  Oh, those early days were trying.

And not only was Charlie hostile to Maggie, she about drove my neighbors crazy with her daily separation anxiety.  Turns out she bonded with us a little too well, and would spend her days crying out for someone, anyone, to come and release her from the confines of her kennel.

But time wore on, as time will do, and we all managed to co-exist peacefully.  Maggie learned to stop snarling at her antagonistic little sister, and Charlie learned to BACK THE F*CK OFF before Maggie ripped her darling little head off.

But then September 11th hit, and we all realized the frailty and delicate nature of life.  I had been living in a sea of denial (because it ain’t just a river in Egypt), and desperately wanted to find the love of my life.  Or at least someone willing to put up with my myriad of crap.

But the internet dating thing, it just didn’t work out.  I met losers and psychos and weirdos (oh my!), all the while preferring to spend my evenings with a pizza, a good book, and my faithful furry companions.

Until I met Dave.  Every day, we spent time getting to know one another; either by phone calls or e-mails or quick dinner dates after work.  Things were progressing really quickly, and one Friday night, I decided to make him my world-famous grilled salmon.  No man can resist the grilled salmon.

Now, Dave was a good guy.  Upon entering my house, he even took off his shoes so as not to track dirt all over the floor.  After dinner, things heated up & we moved to my boudoir for a little round of hanky panky.  After the dirty dancing was finished and the sheets had cooled, he gathered up his things for the drive back to his apartment.  Except for one little problem.

Charlie had destroyed his shoes.  There was nothing left except two regurgitated shoelaces and a half-eaten sole.

I did the only thing I could do.  Let him spend the night, and took him shoe shopping the next morning.  And the rest, as they say, is history.  He asked me to marry him, we ran away to Saint Lucia to get married, and moved into a brand new house just off the river.

Things were good between Charlie & Maggie, but Maggie’s hips kept getting worse and worse.  When Dave’s wretched mother came over at Christmas, we knew it would be our last holiday together.  And how did Charlie take the news?  She growled at my mother-in-law at every given opportunity.  When Rosemarie tried to put food in Charlie’s kennel, Charlie growled at her.  When Rosemarie went upstairs to bed, Charlie would follow her and grumble.  I didn’t make a big issue of it – figured Charlie was just stressed out with the move and the extra houseguest – and let it go.  Secretly, I praised her for being such a great judge of character and snuck in extra kisses and milk bones.

About four or five months later, I came home from work to find Charlie’s kennel empty and no sign of Maggie.  Assuming the worst, my heart started pounding and I found myself bawling as I went up the stairs.  I kept calling out for them, but neither one barked so much as a happy hello to me.  When I got to the top of the stairs, I turned into our bedroom, expecting to find Maggie had passed away with Charlie staying close to her dearly departed sister.

Then, I heard it.  “Thumpa thumpa thumpa thumpa thumpa.”  It was Maggie’s tail, wagging under the covers where she had crawled to hide.  And still, no sign of Charlie.  Until I glanced out the window and saw a streak of white, cowering in the back corner of our fenced in yard.  Turns out, Charlie saw a bunny through our sliding glass patio door, and charged the kennel and the patio doors until she was able to get into the yard.  According to our neighbors, the bunny narrowly escaped and Charlie spent the entire afternoon hiding behind the one and only tree in our backyard.

About a month after the bunny incident, we made the decision to have Maggie put down.  She could barely walk, struggling to climb the stairs to go to bed with us.  If she did manage to make it to the top, she’d often vomit from the pain.  It was just too much.

Putting her down was so hard, but we only allowed ourselves to grieve for a few hours.  That afternoon, we’d made arrangements to welcome Zoey into our home.  We knew Charlie needed another sister to keep her company, and picked up Zoey at the nearby humane society.

Charlie was used to being the center of our world, and it took her a few months to be fully accepting of Zoey.  Soon enough, they were going outside together, lounging on the deck together, and sharing their toys with each other.  And getting into trouble together.

That picture was snapped after the two of them tag-teamed a poor little birdie to it’s unfortunate demise.  Then took turns rolling on the carcass until the two of them were good and stinky, after which they proudly kerplopped the remains on the sill of the patio door.

It was about this time that I quit working, and spent all my time obsessing over getting pregnant.  Charlie & Zoey were so happy to have me home with them during the day, and we fell into an easy routine of lazy mornings, lunches on the patio, and road trips in the afternoon.

Charlie was as affectionate as ever, jumping on the bed & giving me puppy kisses before I was fully awake each morning.  But underneath all that love and squishy puppy nose, she was struggling with The Dark Side.

We had to keep her food dish separate from Zoey’s, or she’d growl when they stood side-by-side to eat.

And she’d panic and hide whenever we sneezed or coughed or hung up laundry (something about the snapping of the clothes sent terror through her veins).  But we’d always redirect her anger or offer up some reassurance and extra love.

She was always happy to be by my side.  Even when I was crying every day, and mad at the world because I couldn’t get pregnant.  She never questioned why she wasn’t enough, why I *needed* to have a baby, why I was always so sad.  She loved me, no matter how awful I was.

And then we moved again.  But she took it all in stride.

More or less.

And then I got pregnant.  And she still stuck by my side.  Happy to see me so happy, and sensing the little life that was growing inside of me.  She’d often lay her head on my lap, with her ear resting softly against my belly.

She loved my being pregnant, because it meant less time away from her and many more hours of bed rest.

And then the baby came, along with strange smells, sleepless nights, and so much crying.  Oh God, the crying.  I know it scared her, to hear those desperate screams coming from such a small body.  But she tried to adjust, and learned to love her new baby brother.

Until he got mobile.  Sadly, something in her drastically changed when he started crawling around.  She became extremely skittish around him, growling if he got too close to her food dish or her toys.  We tried to redirect her or distract him, but the problems were escalating.  It was like she was unintentionally seeing him as a rabbit or some other small animal.  As an item of prey.  But she tried to get control of it, and seemed fine when all of us were outside together.

She would swim in her kiddie swimming pool or play with her toys or chase the birdies.  I never felt threatened by her when we were outside.

Then, over Memorial Day weekend, she nipped Mason.  My sister-in-law and niece were visiting, and I thought the extra stress & noise were too much for her fragile little psyche.  I didn’t make a big deal out of it at the time; but looking back, that was the beginning of the end.

If we put him in the walker, she would walk behind him and growl; going so far as to push the base of it with her teeth.  Every time he came near her, she would jump up and try and get away from him as fast as she could.  You could literally see her battling her inner demons.  Deep down, she knew he wasn’t going to hurt her.  But she knew she couldn’t control her evil impulses.

And last Wednesday, she snapped at him.  I had just hung up the phone in our bedroom, and Mason snuck out the door ahead of me.  I heard a low, rumbling, horrifying growl, followed by the unmistakable sound of Charlie’s teeth angrily clamping down.

I was terrified.  I fully expected to see blood pouring out of my son; but fortunately, he was able to move out of the way before she bit him.  I yelled at her and tried to give her a slap on the mouth, but she hung her head down and ran off before I could get to her.  From that moment on, I knew she couldn’t be trusted.

I spent Thursday and Friday with my guard up, scared to let Mason come anywhere near her without my constant supervision.  And it was exhausting.  I love Mason (and Charlie, too), but it was impossible to spend every second watching him.  Our kitchen has a small island/counter extension, and I was too scared to let him be on one side of it (where the dogs’ food dishes are) and me on the other.

And on Sunday morning, disaster struck.  We gathered in Mason’s bedroom for a Father’s Day cuddle; and Dave and I sat on the floor to let Mason have a little crawl around.  Charlie came into the bedroom to see what was going on, and kerplopped herself down between me and Dave.  When Mason came crawling back into the bedroom, she let out the same low growl I had heard on Wednesday and curled her lip at him, baring all her teeth.  If Dave or I hadn’t been on the floor with her and scooped up Mason, she would have bit him.

So, we made the agonizing decision to have her put down.  I knew she couldn’t be given to anyone else.  She was a ticking time bomb, and it was only a matter of time until she attacked.  I honestly don’t think she would have meant to hurt Mason.  She just couldn’t control herself.

We spent Sunday together, repeatedly filling up her pool with clean water so she could swim and splash and enjoy the day.  And Sunday night, we made her a big plate of scrambled eggs for dinner.  I expected to have Monday with her, and wanted to make the appointment for the last one of the day.  I figured the vet’s office would be quiet, and I could spend a few last quiet hours with her.

Monday morning, I called our vet; and found out the only time they had open was for 10:15, so I booked it and called Dave to come home.  We got my parents to come and watch Mason and Zoey, and tearfully loaded Charlie into the car for her final ride with us.

I cried the whole way to the vet’s office.  I knew she was aggressive and had to be put down before she hurt Mason or one of us.  I knew it in my head, but my heart couldn’t (and still doesn’t) understand.  We filed into the clinic, and settled down on the blanket we brought along for her to rest on.

The vet came in, and gave her a sedative shot to calm her down.  But she fought it, and she fought it hard.  She leaned against me like she did when I was pregnant, letting me put my arms around her to rub her belly and snuggle into her sweet, soft neck.  After 10 minutes, she laid down on the blanket; but stayed coherent enough to raise her head when the bell rang in the office or when her name was called.  We cried and cried and cried.  She just wasn’t ready to let go yet.

After 20 minutes, the vet came in and gave her another shot of sedative.  It took about 5 minutes, but she finally laid her head down on the blanket as her breathing became soft and shallow.  We stayed with her, gently petting her side and encouraging her to rest.  We repeatedly told her what a good dog she was, and how much we loved her.  I told her that she was my favorite, that she would always be my favorite; but it was time for her to go  and find Maggie on the other side of the bridge.  I whispered that we would meet again someday, and that I would never stop loving her.  And I kept telling her how sorry I was.

And with that, she slipped away.  I sobbed and told her one last time that I was sorry.  Sorry she wasn’t enough.  Sorry I let her love me through all the dark days, only to throw her away when my dreams finally came true.

Everyone keeps telling us we did the right thing, but I still have a hard time believing it.  And in my heart, I’m relieved we had her put down before she hurt Mason.  This way, I choose to remember the wonderful memories of her and all the good times we shared.  Had she bitten Mason, I would be filled with hatred and spite; and that’s not how I want to remember my Baby Bean.

We’re all lost without her, unsure of what to do with ourselves.  I emptied her swimming pool, put away her dog dishes, and washed her slobber off the windows.  I picked up her toys and put her brush away; yet I keep looking for her, expecting to find her peeking around the corner of the hutch or the closet door.  I cry every time I see that single dog dish for Zoey next to the counter, and miss my girl every minute of the day.  The house is so quiet without her.

Mason keeps calling for her.  He had a certain squeal he’d use when he wanted to see her, and she’d come running every time she heard him.  This morning, he squealed and peered through the slats in his crib; wondering why she wasn’t coming in to greet him.

And poor Zoey.  She’s heartbroken.  She mopes around all day, following us from room to room, waiting for Charlie to come through the door.  She paces around the yard, as if she’s forgetting to look behind the shed or underneath the deck.  Like maybe, if she looks in the right place, Charlie will pop out and greet her with a body slam and a nuzzle.

Right now, it’s hard.  I know it will get better.  I know it will.  But for right now, I feel empty.

I miss my girl.

I’m sorry, Charlie.

And then there were four…

We had to have Charlie, our sweet yellow lab & beagle mix put down this morning.

I’ll be back tomorrow.  I need tonight to clear my head.

Rest in peace, Baby Bean.  I love you.

Day 6: Grace in Small Things

1.  Mason’s first haircut.  Disastrous but momentous.

2.  The smell of a huge kettle of  chicken booyah hanging in the air at a summer picnic.

3.  Finding out the words are “If I had *more* money, honey”; not “If I had *no* money honey, would you love me love me love me”.  Eh, it’s all in your personal financial perspective, I guess.

4.  Hearing an acoustic version of said song (Money Honey) and tearing up at the personal meaning behind the lyrics,
“So far from where we started, so far from what we wanted.  And as both our worlds fall down, we have lost and we have found.  So far from where we started, so far from what we wanted.  I’ve made mistakes that I can’t erase, I’ve made mistakes.”

5.  Stopping on the side of a country road to watch a newborn calf trying to take it’s first wobbly steps.

Day 5: Grace in Small Things

1.  Mason’s 7th(!!!!!!!) tooth popping through his gums.  Why include this one?  Because it validates his crabbiness, rather than thinking it was just because he was sick of hanging out with me every day!

2.  Finding the perfect Father’s Day card.

3.  The clean, refreshing feeling that comes from drinking a tall glass of water instead of soda.

4.  Opening a credit card bill with a zero balance.

5.  Throwing together chicken salad with leftover grilled chicken, some grapes, a little celery, a little bit of fresh pineapple, and a dollop of light mayo to hold it all together & having it taste out of this world good.

Breaking.

The Husband is coming back from his 2-week affair in England tomorrow, and I can honestly say that I’m a little worried about it.

Something changed in me while he was gone.  All I heard about were the amazing parties he went to and the fabulous meals he had and how great it was to see his old friends and down a pint or six at the local pubs.  He spent 14 days in England, and never once had a night in.  Not once.

When he’s home, he’s too busy working to do anything with me.  Leaves for work at 7:00 in the morning, gets home around 6:30, and sits in his recliner all night working on his laptop.  I cook dinner, he gives the baby a bath, and I go to bed.  Or he cuts the lawn or plays Bob the Builder and works on the deck extension.  That’s it.  That’s my pathetic and boring life.  Do I mind?  No, not really.  I get extremely anxious in the city at night – there are too many crazies lurking in the shadows or sitting at the stoplight next to me.  At home, I’m safe.

But all his jabbering about the great nights he just had makes me wonder if I’m missing something.  He never takes me out.  The last time we were out without Mason was last November, nearly 7 months ago.  Yet he stars in his own production of Limey Bastard Dad Gone Wild when he’s away from me.

Have our lives gone in such different directions?  Sadly, I’m starting to think so.  I don’t miss the late nights and the horrendous hangovers and my coat smelling like stale cigarette smoke for a week.  I thought he felt the same way; but listening to him go on and on and on about what a great time he’s having while I sit home cleaning up baby vomit and picking up dog crap just pisses me off.

I want to escape the mundane details of my life sometimes, too.  But I can’t.  I have a child to look after and he is the most important thing in the world to me.

Nothing has changed for The Husband since we had the baby.  Nothing.  He’s still going to be in a weekly shooting league this summer.  He’s still going to be on a bowling team this fall (every Wednesday night from September through May!!!).  He still walks away from the dinner table without giving the cleanup or the baby’s entertainment or my happiness a second thought. Or even a first thought, for that matter.

But I wanted to go on an overnight bus trip to Sault St Marie at the end of the month; and both he and my parents laid a tremendous guilt trip on me.  IT’S ONE F**KING NIGHT, PEOPLE!!!!!  *I* want to sleep in a bed by myself, made up with clean sheets that a maid put there.  *I* want to get dressed in the morning & not have my pants covered in dog hair 15 minutes later.  *I* want to read a book and listen to my ipod and watch a movie from start to finish.

Why can’t I have that?  Why can’t I do something I want to do, on my own?  Why does he get to have all kinds of fun without me; but I can barely go to the toilet without him and/or the baby?

I don’t know.  I’m just tired of being taken for granted, I guess.  I’m the one who knows how to hold Mason when he’s overtired or what songs to sing when he can’t sleep or how many poofy snacks he can eat at a time.  And I love that I can do all that.

And I suppose I could just throw the baby at him and say, “here, you deal with him for a change”.  But I want him to WANT to spend time with his son.  With me.  In the life that I thought we were building together.  Yet I realize that we’re not partners.  He doesn’t see us as equals.  He sees me as less, when he notices me at all.

He makes me feel very insecure, like a tiny little fragment of my former self.

Like I’m broken yet again.

Day 4: Grace in Small Things

1.  Watching little boys stomp in the puddles at Walmart after a thunderstorm.

2.  The delicious silky softness of newly shaved & moisturized legs.

3.  Stinky puppy breath.

4.  Paying a compliment to someone unexpectedly, and knowing you just brightened their day a little.

5.  The smell of Mason’s hair after a long soak in the tub.

Day 3: Grace in Small Things

I’m really enjoying participating in this.  It makes me much more aware of the happy little details of my life each day.

1.  A downtrodden rancher winning one of the biggest single Powerball jackpots in history.  I sincerely hope he and his family dream big.

2.  Getting a coupon in the mail for $2.00 off a pack of diapers when I actually *need* to buy diapers.

3.  Finding an obscure song on iTunes and/or YouTube.

4.  Walking into the house when there’s a loaf of bread baking.

5.  Drawing smiley faces in the steamed up windows.

Day 2: Grace in Small Things

1.  Seeing an elderly couple holding hands while walking perfectly in sync.

2.  Corn on the cob with real butter.

3.  Seeing a strong heartbeat at the first ultrasound.  (NO!  I’m not pregnant again – just remembering the pure joy at that tiny little flicker on the screen.)

4.  Holding a ticket in the final moments before a big Powerball drawing, wishing and wondering if your life is about to drastically change.

5.  Hearing “Ice Ice Baby” on the radio, and still knowing all the words.