Say Ahhhhhhhhhh

The American Dream

I spent the last 12 months scolding Oski for chewing on Jonah and Riley’s toys. So I finally bought him some new balls. Oski loves his balls. The thing is Jonah loves Oski’s balls too. So now I yell at Jonah for chewing on Oski’s toys. I am all for sharing; it is the swapping of drool I have a problem with. Jonah is thrilled with a particular orange, very bouncy, rubber ball. He has learned how to ricochet the ball off walls. He will throw it and wait for it to come back to him. He will pick it up and do it all over again.

Matt named our son after Jonah Tali Lomu. Lomu is a New Zealand rugby player on its national team called the All Blacks. He’s a Hall-Of-Famer, branded the most intimidating player of the game, and articles read things like attacking prowess and pure power. So one day I will tell Jonah he is named after a 6-foot-5-inch, 274-pound Samoan. Matt wants Jonah to be just like him. Not the beastly Polynesian part, but the global superstar athlete part. It is looking good so far. All the men in the family say things like:

“Look at his hand-eye coordination.”

“What a good arm.”

All the men in the family think things like: Thank God he doesn’t take after his mother. Jonah is supposed to attend a prestigious college in some far away city, preferably on an athletic scholarship, until he signs with some professional sports team and financially supports his parents. Matt tells me: This is the American Dream. I, however, never want to him to leave home.

Sometimes, Jonah overshoots and has to chase the orange ball, crawling fiercely on his hands and knees. The thing is Oski chases it too. So I yell at Oski for chasing his own ball. I am so confused.

Milk

I stared at the glass doors. It was cold. I shivered every time the refrigerator doors opened. I needed milk. But none of the cartons looked familiar. I always buy Sunnyside 1% milk at SaveMart. I wasn’t at SaveMart. Here didn’t have a half-gallon of 1% milk in a pink and white carton. There was nothing that came close. There was a strange brand here – blue and green. I didn’t know what to do. Why had I come here? SaveMart was just down the street. I could go there now. But I was here. But here doesn’t have the pink and white carton. The milk in these ones couldn’t be the same. Could it? Make a decision. Buy one. Leave. Stop standing here. I should call my mom. She would know what to do. She told me never to buy milk in plastic jugs. Light penetrates the plastic and kills the vitamins. But she never said anything about milk in blue and green cartons.

Little things that make my world go round

Last night, we celebrated my sister’s birthday. This was memorable for two reasons.

1:

I treated Riley to pea-size bites of vanilla ice cream and Matt drizzled root beer from his root beer float onto her tongue through a straw. So when I noticed a milky white glob on her pajamas I instinctively scoped it up and licked my finger. It was not ice cream. It was puke.

2:

Riley fell and hit her head (she has started taking her first steps). It’s usually Jonah’s rambunctious behavior I have to worry about. I ask my Mom if there is a grace period for head hits. She looks confused. I explain. Do they get so many times before there is actual brain damage? I’m partly joking, but partly searching for some assurance that my children are going to be ok.

I could call the doctor, but the conversation just sounds stupid in my head.

a look back

Every time I see my pediatrician, I have a list of things wrong with my kids. My mother-in-law tells me Riley has a hernia and my grandma-in-law seconds; my husband insists she is cross-eyed; and my mom demonstrates how she either breathes too heavily or is gasping for air. I’m told Jonah’s head is flat because we don’t give him enough tummy time; he has cradle cap; and cries inconsolably which means he’s colicky, suffering from acid reflux, or allergic to milk, a unanimous sentiment by all women.

My kids do cry a lot, however, I’m hesitant to call the doctor. I imagine the ridiculous conversation in my head.

“Dr. Mojibi’s office.”

“This is Karen Price, Mom of Jonah and Riley. I think I need to see the doctor.”

“What’s wrong?”

“My babies are crying.”

My sister’s kids are allegric to milk, and she says her doctor says it might be hereditary. So this time I’m going to have Dr. Mojibi test their stool for blood, which I’m told is a conclusive symptom of milk allergies. Hmmm, now which pocket in the diaper bag for the Ziploc bag of poo?

Of course, it’s not until the waiting room I realize I forgot to cap the baby bottles, and their change of clothes are soaked in formula. No clothes. And no food. Crap.

Things I do for Love (Part 2)

“Sit.”

“Quit.”

“Here.”

“No.”

Jonah and Riley are fighting over a tube of toothpaste.

I have realized the commands I give them are the same ones I give our dog. The commotion rouses him from his mid-morning slumber, long enough to realize he’s of no importance. He walks out of the room, probably wondering what happened to the long days of Frisbee at the park and the spontaneous bouts of affectionately scratching his underside.

I laugh. I remember how I would throw toilet paper and Kleenex on the bathroom floor to entertain him. He would tear it all to shreds. So I upgraded to socks. Textbook mistake. I now drop things on the floor to entertain Jonah and Riley while I get ready. Spatula. Basting brush. Measuring spoon. Blow dryer. Tube of toothpaste. I nonchalantly slide a tube of body lotion and diaper rash cream off the counter. Peace is temporarily restored.

I never wanted a dog, but I love my husband. So we drove to Squaw Valley and picked a pure bred Australian Shepherd out of a litter of pups. If I was getting a dog, it had to be the perfect dog. A good family dog. Matt wanted a smart one. We both wanted a female, but the pup with the best coloring (and the one that didn’t look like it was going to die) was a male. He shivered on my lap in the blankets we brought, and the man who ran the place said the pup was scared. I imagine leaving all he has ever known ­– his brothers and sisters, a swarm of flies, and the crap he was sitting in – was scary. On the way home, I remember Matt saying something about how dogs can get carsick too. Great.

We named him Oski. Well, Matt named him Oski after the Cal Bear mascot. He has one blue eye and one brown eye, common for this breed. Also common is to cut their tail off after birth. They are bred to be herders, and I imagine it gets in the way of herding. But I didn’t want a dog without a tail. However, no one told me his tail alone sheds enough hair to coat my sofa and clog the vacuum each week. I ask Matt if we can cut it off now. He says no.

The first week we had Oski some guy at Matt’s work opened the warehouse door on his leg. Oski limped for days. I was so distraught. I didn’t want a dog in the first place. So I definitely didn’t want a three-legged one. He recovered. He chewed up door molding, peed on the carpet, puked on me, barked a lot, and made me chase him around the living room sofa. I swear he was laughing at me. Seriously, I saw a smile. I Google Aussies:

Aussies can have a very high opinion of themselves and many have a more dominant, somewhat pushy personality; this trait, when combined with the breed's natural intelligence, may mean disaster. An Aussie with no sheep to herd, ducks to drive, or cattle to round up will get into trouble. The owner of an Aussie must be assertive enough to make sure this doesn't happen. If you hate being assertive, are very soft spoken, and want a dog that will naturally give in to you without any stress, then don't get an Aussie.

Crap.

Oski was bored, intelligent, and apparently, needed sheep. So we sent him away to boot camp for 45 days. It was a kennel in Coarsegold run by a guy named Mike, our very own Dog Whisperer. He said 45 days is long enough to change behavior but short enough so he won’t forget us. It was a very hot summer day when we returned to pick him up. Mike took us through an obstacle course on the grounds and demonstrated the new Oski. He was the same dog but obedient, attentive. Matt and I ran back and forth with him practicing, “Sit. Down. Stay.” And the best part, I pulled on his leash as if trying to get him up and he wouldn’t budge, until I said “Ok.” He heeled on command and walked at Mike’s side keeping the same pace.

Oski was hot and lapped up water from a nearby plastic pool as Mike continued the lesson. He instructed that the training come first. Every day, at least an hour a day, practice the commands, continue the discipline and be consistent. Then reward him with a walk. However, a walk is not exercise. Running alongside a bike or a vigorous game of Frisbee is exercise. He warns Oski will backslide if not challenged. There was a lot to remember.

Mike was concerned the truck was too hot for Oski and regretted scheduling our pick up on such a day. He wasn’t too concerned about Matt and I getting inside. We left with a sheet of paper listing various commands and Dos and Don’ts, three types of leashes, and Mike’s phone number.

I tried the bike thing. Once. I manage to fall off a bike all by myself. So I definitely did not need an excited sheepherder tied to the handlebars to help with that. I tried Frisbee and played fetch in the pool. One day Oski started digging in the yard. I call Mike. He tells me that’s a hard one and something else I can’t remember. But what I do remember is “Clean it up, but don’t let him see you cleaning it up.” I hang up.

Am I the only one who can see the absurdity in all of this? Clean it up, but don’t let him see I’m cleaning it up. Oh, and smack his hind leg with the end of his leash if he shows aggression toward another dog. Really. I’ve been drug halfway down the street before I have positioned the end of the leash appropriately to do such a thing, let alone hone my hand-eye coordination skills (which I have none) to hit his hind leg. Honestly, I just look ridiculous. Oh, and don’t forget to challenge him. Make him respect me. Be a leader. Be fair but firm. All the while deepening my voice to sound like a guy because, well, that supposedly works better.

Oh my God. There I was, the crazy neighbor with her dog running invisible obstacle courses in the front yard, trying to sound like Darth Vader.

“Did you put a chip in him,” asked my in-laws.

“No, I think you only do that if you want him back.” I smile.

After I gave birth, my mom not so subtly posts an article on my refrigerator about dogs attacking babies in swings. She asks me if I think Oski will eat Jonah and Riley. Which I have to admit wasn’t completely out of the question considering they were a little more than four pounds and could have been mistaken for a chew toy. I tell her that Oski just wants to sniff and lick them.

And that’s exactly what he has done, to which I respond with “No.” He is very protective of Jonah and Riley and a guardian of our home. It’s somehow beautiful when I hear Oski yelping because Riley is trying to disconnect his ear, but he patiently waits for her to finish and lays down for what might be a spontaneous bout of affectionately scratching his underside – and sometimes, Jonah and Riley do just that.

So for the most part, I don’t wish him away, well, until his breath smells like fish, he laps up water from the toilet bowl, poops on the lawn, barks obnoxiously when I’m feeding Jonah and Riley, chews up Jonah’s favorite ball, chews up the number one in our wooden number set, pukes, cuts his leg on broken pottery costing more than my entire lifetime of medical bills, I have to ask Matt to groom him, I have to ask Matt to buy him food, I have to buy him food.

Ok, I wish him away a lot. But life happens. Oski happened. And well, I love my husband. Oski has become part of – dare I say it – our family. But I refuse to put him in our family Christmas card, even if I do feel bad for getting his head caught in my car between the tire and fender.

Jonah and Riley are eating Kibbles and Bits. Ugh.

“No.” I carry them to another room.

Dr. Mojibi gave us a handout called: A guide for parents on teaching their children the concept of “no.” I definitely have the Displace and Distract down, but I can’t remember the first D. I grab it off the refrigerator. Demeanor. Yes, Demeanor: Face should be serious and, Moms, especially, should lower their voices so the infant will recognize this conversation is different and meaningful. Oh, God.

Things I do for Love

Our house should feel homey, Matt tells me. I tell him homey doesn’t go with our modern sofa, 1950’s Nelson knock-off coffee table (which looks more like a bench), and low profile credenzas. I’m a minimalist, mid-century modern girl at heart, who loves her husband. So I buy a homey kitchen towel to hang on the oven door every three months.

Kitchen towel: Sur La Table

Project 279

Mother's Day wrapping:

I love the kraft striped paper and boxes from Target. To create the ribbon, I cut circles out of bronze paper using a 3/4" hole punch. I then cut circles in the tops of the circles with a 1/8" hole punch to feed the twine through.

I ran out of time, so no beautiful tags to go with this wrapping. Just one more thing I've let go in the name of sanity since having twins.