We Have A Ghost Dog

I've learned to sleep alone, and sleep soundly and peacefully. Not by choice, but by not having any other choice. My hubby has always had a job that involves being gone nights. So, it's either pull up my big girl panties and learn to get a good nights sleep, or go crazy imagining all the noises I've heard are spooky monsters.

That being said, I never sleep with the closet door open and I still tuck all my limbs under the blanket to avoid the things under the bed.

A few weeks ago, I woke up because I heard dog toe nails on the hardwood floor outside my bedroom door. I have three dogs. I know what they sound like as they walk around. My first thought was I better get up to open the door for them. My next thought was wondering how they got out of their latched cage....maybe I didn't fully catch the clasp.....It's been known to happen. Once.

I got up and opened the door and low and behold, nothing. No dog. I did some tactical searching of the house, but all the dogs are in their crates, all the kids are zonked out in their beds. I decided I was imagining it, but at the back of my mind I was thinking, "Ghost Dog!"

It makes a good story to laugh about. But fast forward a few nights, and before I fall asleep I hear dog tags jingling. Okay. I know the dogs are not out. I ask my barely awake husband if he can hear it. He is silent for a minute, then says, yes, he can. Ghost Dog!

He insists it's the ceiling fan's pull chains clinking together.

I think otherwise.

Ghost Dog!

The kids have always said they think our house is haunted.....

Ghost Dog!

I did pull the covers up over my ears last night. If Ghost Dog was walking around, I didn't want to know. I really needed to get some sleep!

A Groove In My Fingers

My son is a good driver. Honest! I'm not just saying that to make him feel good; he doesn't read my blog so I can write whatever I want. But the truth is, he is a good driver. He pays attention, he follows the speed limit, he is as cautious as any mother of an almost 16 year old driver could desire.

That doesn't mean I am not sitting in the front seat white knuckled. Because I so am.

Our console between the front seats has a little flip up lid that is never fully closed. My fingers slide into that crack effortlessly and there they grip with intensity. I am not grabbing for the arm rest or the hand hold on the ceiling. My fingers just get tighter on the sharpish lip.

Until I have a groove worn into my finger tips.

Now, this I gladly accept. The bite of the hard plastic as I cling to it helps me stay focused and calm. My son does not need me flailing my arms around with spastic nervousness. I like to think he doesn't know how tightly I hold on; I'd like to think he believes that I am just sitting at his side, a little tense, but over all not doing too bad.

I'd like to think that, but I'm sure he knows the truth. I do leave the car with an imprint of the console lid on my finger tips. That's not the sign of a totally cool, calm, hip cat.

But it is the sign of a mother letting go of her son a little at a time.

I've never been more proud of him....or myself.

I Got You Babe

They say we're young and we don't know

We won't find out until we grow

Well I don't know if all that's true

'Cause you got me, and baby I got you

They say our love won't pay the rent

Before it's earned, our money's all been spent

I guess that's so, we don't have a pot

But at least I'm sure of all the things I've got

18 years ago today, we were 18 year old kids, standing on the edge of the best decision we ever made. I know people said we were too young, but just because we were young didn't mean we didn't know what marriage and love is all about.

It's been hard work and fun times, it's been making ends meet and rolling merrily along, it's been frustrations and joy....and it's been just about perfect!

We've grown up together, melded our lives into one adventure, and I can honestly say I love him more today than I did back then. You just have no idea how love is going to grow, how you think you love him so much, and then you watch him hold your newborn son for the first time or move a back breaking piano into the house for your daughter or be a goofball to make the family laugh hysterically, or hand you a piece of cheese to stave off a hungry melt down proving that he does know you, and you love him more than you did. So much more....

I got flowers in the spring, I got you to wear my ring

And when I'm sad, you're the clown

And if I get scared, you're always around

So let them say your hair's too long

'Cause I don't care, with you I can't go wrong

Then put your little hand in mine

There ain't no hill or mountain we can't climb

I got you to hold my hand

I got you to understand

I got you to walk with me

I got you to talk with me

I got you to kiss goodnight

I got you to hold me tight

I got you, I won't let go

I got you to love me so

I got you Babe.

Thank God.

My Bangs Were Born To Feather

I have a clear memory from around the time I was 8 or 9 years old, where I loved it take the comb and do that backwards curly thing (you know what I mean, right?) and watch my bangs feather to perfection.

It's too bad that late 70's, early 80's look isn't still cool today, because my bangs were born to feather!

They do it naturally, if I sweep my bangs off my face, they will feather out with no help. I work really hard to not brush my bangs back, no matter how frazzled and flushed I feel, but even if my hand doesn't do it, the wind likes to rush past me, blowing my hair up and back down, no longer resembling bangs that are flat ironed daily.

I lied a little about the perfection part. One side does have a cowlick and the other side just has a tweak out.

But this is me in my natural state, crazy eyes and feathered bangs.

The only thing that would make this the perfect picture is if I had some braided barrettes!

I saw these and felt an intense rush of desire. I don't care if I am days away from 37 years old. IF these puppies came back in style, I'd make some to wear!

I'm Not Staring....I'm Observing

It's taken me almost 37 years, and it was only through my daughter's insightful comment, that I have realized a true fact.

I am not staring. I am observing.

I can't count the number of times as a child that I heard the words, "Stop staring." In fact, one of my favorite stories to hear retold by my Mom is about a woman at seminary with us who told Mom that my sister and I stared. A lot. My thoughts on that now as an adult are, well, that woman must have had something interesting about her.

But it's true. I stare. I've perfected the subtle stare, and if I can't pull of the "you just caught me staring but I was actually looking around the room at a million other things and we just happened to catch our eyes in a completely random accidental gaze," then I will smile to briefly acknowledge that I was indeed looking at you and just move on to stare at the next interesting object that catches my fancy.

As a Mom, I've said "stop staring" quite a bit. In fact, I just said it yesterday to my daughter. To which she replied, "I'm observing. There is a difference."

I think she's right. There is a difference.

So from now on, if you see me watching something intently, just know that I am not staring. I am being observant. And if my observant eyes are on you, well, then you might want to question what you are doing that is drawing my eyes to you.....I only stare at things that rivet my attention!

The Morning Walk From H-E-Double Hockey Sticks

Often, when I walk, I get happy. Or at least, content. I start walking and suddenly, it's a good thing. Today was not one of those days.

I thought about bagging the walk because I had a slight headache, but then I caught sight of my butt in the mirror and thought it's not bad, but walking is what keeps it from getting worse. And when I opened the bathroom door all the dogs were waiting for me.

So I find my sweatshirt, but on my dog poop shoes (when did I step in that?) outside and am ready to harness and leash three dogs.

Emma has other ideas and can't wait. She runs into the alley while I'm putting Olive's harness on. I get Sarah hooked up and walk out to Emma, who of course, seeing the other two dogs ready to walk makes her ready so she takes off running .

She turns right and heads down the sidewalk. I am by now not using my sugar voice, but my scary whisper voice that means if I could be yelling at you, I would. That isn't working. She stops and looks back at me, like, come on Mom, let's go! Instead, I kneel down and cajole her back to me.

I should have turned back home right then. Instead, we went down to the trail and Emma was the lead dog. She would not walk on the right side. She was pulling or stopping suddenly, leashes were tangled, Sarah kept doing the 'the leash is under my tail' squat and Olive held back as much as she could. Half of the walk I didn't see Olive because she was at my heels.

And Emma pooped twice. In less than half a block. And while I was trying to pick it up, she was doing that scrabble run they do, when the leash is too short but they think they can stretch it through sheer force.

This morning, I think I would have found happiness and contentment just as well, sitting on the couch, reading a book and enjoying my cup of coffee!

This Years Bumper Crop

Every year, I have one glorious over abundance of something in my garden. One year it was lettuce. One year it was peas. I'm sure the kids rejoice that it has never been zucchini (try as I might to get it to be).

This year it is a plant that I have had for years, that has always giving me one serving, one year not even, and for it to decide this year, my year of lazy gardening, that this is the year to grow tall and strong and giant, well, golly! That's totally cool with me.

Rhubarb, it's whats for dinner.

Kidding! It's what's for dessert! I love me some rhubarb cobbler. Or pie. Or coffee cake. I love rhubarb.

I still remember my first taste of rhubarb pie, how the tart sweetness burst on my tongue and I wanted more, lots more. When my Grandma offered me part of her rhubarb plant, I was thrilled. I'd been going out to her place to harvest rhubarb every year, so having some of my own was awesome.

But it didn't like where I planted it. I moved it and it liked the new spot better, enough so that I felt it wouldn't die out on me. This year, Grandma asked me to come out and dig up her entire rhubarb plant. She was just cutting it and freezing it for me anyway, I might as well own it and the work. Gladly!

I split it with my sister, then haphazardly planted it, because seriously, this wet summer has lead to my laziest garden experience. Maybe it was all the rain. Maybe it was the immense weeds that crowded around it, but whatever the reason, this year we've had three rhubarb cobblers and I foresee more in our future!

Rhubarb isn't to every one's taste, but it is to mine. And thankfully, the rest of my family. Otherwise, I'd be eating rhubarb cobbler all by myself, and as delightful as that sounds, I don't need to eat all that alone. Want to, sure, but that's a whole different story!