Outtakes

For Father's day, Emme and I decided to try out a little DIY project I had seen on Pinterest as a gift for Chris. It turned out pretty cute, and Chris loved it. Here's the finished project:

But my favorite part is the memory we made, it was so much fun! I could not stop laughing at the way Emme interacted with the big letters. I couldn't even really capture her cuteness on camera, but here's a few of the outtakes:

Father's Day

On this exact date, also Father’s Day, eleven years ago, I watched my father take his last breath.  My family and I were huddled around his bed, as we had been for most of the day. The Beatles were playing quietly on a small boombox nearby when the air seemed to suddenly get thin, and we somehow knew it was almost over. When it finally happened, that moment when we realized he would not exhale, a tremendous amount of feelings flooded my heart and mind; panic, pain, heartbreak, guilt, agony, fear, helplessness, and the instinctual, fleeing thought that if I do something, I might be able to save him. I relived this memory every year on this day, struggling to keep it together while remembering every detail as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. Until last year.

On this exact date, one year ago, on the tenth anniversary of my father’s death, I discovered I was pregnant. As if that day wasn’t heavy enough, as if it hadn’t already been the host of the most life-changing event imaginable, I now had this to deal with. Because I had such a hard time initially accepting my unexpected pregnancy, it felt like a blow, like salt in a gaping wound. I tried to understand the significance of this unlikely coincidence, keeping it close in mind and visiting it often throughout the last year.

It took me the entire year, and not a minute sooner, to realize the meaning, the beautiful lessons here. I finally see the connection, so obvious to me now. I see it in the way Chris looks at Emme, and how her face lights up, smile stretching from one ear to the other, when she sees him. I know that this is how my dad looked at me, how he loved me every moment until his very last. Until Emme was born, I only understood our relationship from my perspective, and when I lost him, I felt as if I lost that relationship and a huge part of myself. But now I see that I can continue to learn about him, and that our relationship can grow and change as my understanding of it changes, eliminating the overwhelming sense of finality associated with his death. 

And then there are the incredible moments when I discover tiny resemblances of him in Emme. When he died, I remember people kindly suggesting that “he is alive in all of us”, but I could never find comfort in it. But with this new life, it is wonderfully heart wrenching to realize that she may just have his nose, or the sweet way she seems to bite her upper lip when she’s really focusing, just like her Grandpa Gary. I can truly see now, that he is, in fact, alive in all of us. And that his memory and presence will continue to grow with our growing families, not fade.

So today, and every Father’s Day that follows, with these exciting new realizations in mind, I will no longer mourn his loss, but celebrate his powerful presence. I will smile at the wonderful, brand new relationship that Chris and Clementine have just begun. I will be confident that the subtle tears I still get every time I hear, and say, the word “dad” are tears of joy, not sadness.  And I will know, with certainty, that he is watching us, and that he is proud of what we have become. And lastly, I will finally let the empty space in my heart, the hollowness that I ardently protected in fear that I would forget him, be filled with new love, and new life. 

The Breastfeeding Battle

Breastfeeding has been a struggle for me from the very first day. Like all new moms, there was a learning curve with the whole process. But instead of being patient and confident that everything would resolve itself organically, I jumped at the first suggestion I received from a health professional. This decision led to a series of events that eventually resulted in my breastfeeding defeat.

It all started when it took two days post-partum for my milk to come in. This is completely normal, and perfectly fine for newborns who can absolutely survive on the colostrum that is produced before the milk. But at the time, I didn’t know this. So when I was told by our pediatrician at our 2-day checkup that Emme had lost a whole pound since birth, I panicked. Again, it is totally normal for newborns to lose weight in the first few days following delivery, but again, I did not know this. So the doctor sent in a lactation consultant who made sure Emme’s latch and position was correct, which they were. She told us that just like anything else, practice makes perfect, and we’d have it down in no time. Had I left the office at that point, the outcome would have been different, but after the lactation consultant left, the pediatrician returned with some rigid instructions: “Start pumping excessively and feeding her with a bottle as often as she’ll eat until your 2-week checkup, when we’ll weigh her again to make sure she’s back to her birth weight.”

The thing is, I had bottles at home, but we had no intention of using them until I was back at work and she was 3 months old. We had heard about nipple confusion, etc, and we didn’t want to introduce them until she was nursing like a pro. But the pediatrician’s voice and demeanor had just enough urgency in it to concern me and I immediately threw all previous plans right out the window.  From her very first bottle, Emme was a happier little bug. It’s not that she was unhappy before, but nursing for her was frustrating, (crying, thrashing her head, kicking her little legs) and I don’t think her belly was getting completely filled. But after crushing that first 4 oz. bottle in a matter of minutes, I really don’t think she ever had a chance of going back to nursing. After that, her belly was constantly full, and feeding was quick and easy. So after 2 weeks, she was back (and far beyond) her birth weight, and we were cleared to re-try nursing. And boy did we try. But at this point, she was spoiled rotten, and it would have taken a miracle. 

And that is how I became an exclusive pumper. I realized over time that there were definitely positive aspects of pumping exclusively, such as the ability to feed Emme anytime, anywhere. And anyone could do it (although I selfishly owned this task so that I could have the same bonding time with her that I would have had if I had been nursing her.) And I was producing enough milk to freeze at least two 5oz. bags a day. We had a great system going so that at any given moment, we had a fresh milk ready for feeding, two refrigerated bottles ready to be warmed, and ample frozen bags in the extremely unlikely event we would need one.  We had milk coming out of our ears. 

And then I got lazy. Because of our overabundant milk stash, and the fact that no one was dictating my pumping but my own self-motivation, I would miss or skip pumpings. I stopped waking in the middle of the night to pump. But even during the day, it was impossible to pump while taking care of Emme, so pumpings got pushed back and skipped. I completely lost my schedule, and slowly, just as it should, I started to lose my milk. It was then that the uphill battle to re-establish my milk supply began. It was a constant, stressful, emotional roller coaster. When I first began pumping, I could fill an 8oz. bottle with no problem after one pumping. When my milk supply began to lessen, I had trouble filling a 4oz. bottle. To aggravate the situation, Emme was starting to eat more, so I was barely producing enough to feed her. I did everything I could to increase my milk, accepting even the strangest suggestions. Some things helped a little, some things had no impact. I was pumping every 2-3 hours, sometimes only getting a single ounce. At the lowest point, we would pray that Emme would sleep long enough for me to produce enough milk to feed her when she woke.  A couple of times, I found myself fighting back tears; there is no worse feeling in the world than not being able to feed your child. But she never once went hungry, thanks to all the frozen milk we had stored.

At this point, many of you are probably wondering why I didn’t just use formula. From the very beginning, I have felt very, very strongly about not using formula, for many reasons. First of all, I believe that breast milk is the perfect food for babies. It is truly fascinating that this substance is so complete that it is the only thing human infants need to grow and develop. There are hundreds of properties and ingredients in breast milk, most of which cannot be re-created. Breast milk changes over the course of the day and year, to accommodate the changing dietary needs of your baby. Statistically, breastfed babies are healthier overall: Formula-fed babies are 14 times more likely to be hospitalized, and twice as likely to get ear infections, diarrhea, and to die from SIDS. These facts are no doubt the result of the process in which formula is created. It has been reported that things such as the highly explosive neurotoxic petrochemical solvent hexane are being used in the manufacturing of baby formula. Reports like this are always controversial, but I would just rather err on the side of caution and avoid formula if possible. Babies are so incredibly pure, new and precious, I hate the thought of giving them a substance that we really don’t know the origin, or even the ingredients. And finally, formula is expensive. Very, very expensive. So for all of these reasons, my goal was for my little bug to never have formula.

But my poor body could not keep up.  With the help of our frozen stash, we lasted 4 whole months on breast milk. It was Monday, at exactly 16 weeks old, that we lost the battle. With no more frozen milk, we had no choice but to give Emme her first formula.  I did my research, and chose the best possible organic formula I could find, the least of all the evils. It was a little tiny consolation that Emme seemed not to care about her new meal. And so far, she’s only had to have one bottle of formula a day. But I’ve had a hard time shaking the feeling of failure.  

In the end, the only thing that really matters is that we are all healthy. I am not giving up on my breast milk plan, and continue to down as much Mother’s Milk tea as I can handle and pump like it’s my job. With a little luck, I hope to get my milk supply back up enough to not have to use the formula. But for now, it is what it is.

Next time, there is a truckload of things I will do differently. Like most new moms, I am learning as I go. But I must remember how incredibly blessed I am that Emme is as healthy as can be, and that whether or not to use formula is the biggest of our worries.

I may have lost the battle, but I did not lose the war.

Two Weeks Notice

It’s official. It is actually happening. My resignation has been submitted. In two weeks, I will finally be a stay-at-home mom.

 This new role is so much more to me than a job. This is the culmination of a lifetime of day-dreaming, planning and preparation. See, I’ve known from a very young age that I wanted to be a mom. But not any mom, I wanted to be my mom.

 I have such vivid memories growing up, in a house where there was always a warm energy. It would make sense that the reason for this energy was the fact that I had four siblings, but I believe it was the result of my incredible mother. We moved constantly growing up, changing houses, cities, states, countries, and continents. But our houses always felt the same, like home. She was the constant.

 She was always there and always engaged with us in one way or another. We had her undivided attention and love, which must have been a challenge with so many of us. She always planned ahead, thinking of ways to make even the most grueling tasks enjoyable. We tease her now, as some of these tactics have lost effectiveness with our ages. (“Cmon guys! Let’s collect all the dead leaves and broken branches in the yard and make a big pile in the driveway! It’ll be fun!”…)

Everything was fun. When we ran errands, she would crank up the Raffi, and we’d sing along while we worked on our sticker books. If we were well-behaved, we got to stop by the “little store” on our way home and pick out an ice cream or a bag of “alligator chips.” When we traveled, we had to give her our empty backpacks the night before our flights. In the morning, they were stuffed full with new toys, games, books and activities, but we weren’t allowed to look until we were in our airplane seats with our seat belts on. There was always enough in there to entertain us for days. I remember several separate instances of fellow travelers, especially on those long international flights, complimenting her on her “well-behaved children”. I could not completely understand their compliment, until now.

Holidays were always spectacular, no matter how big or small. For a few years in the late 90’s, we traveled every year for Christmas, each time to a country we had never been – Kenya, Tanzania, Italy, Israel, etc. But my mom made sure that wherever we were, Santa found us. One year for Christmas, we had Christmas morning around a Christmas tree in the lobby of our London hotel; it was the only tree around, so Santa left all of our gifts there. Hotel guests stopped to watch us open and play with our gifts, there in our jammies, as they passed by. Another year, Santa left our gifts outside our Tanzanian bungalow, where my parents spent most of the time retrieving gifts that the monkeys had stolen. But perhaps my favorite holiday was Valentines Day. At dinner that night, there was a little gift bag on each of our plates with, no doubt, well thought-out items inside.

 Dinners were something special at our house. Every night, same time, same place. The TV was never on (we weren’t allowed to watch TV on weekdays anyway) and our attention was on each other. This was the time we learned what was happening in each other’s lives. My mom always prompted the HIGH-LOW game, where we had to go around the table and tell everyone what the high and low of our day had been. A seemingly small, insignificant task, but the information we learned was invaluable. Some of my most favorite memories occurred at the dinner table. Like the time a particular favorite song of my mom’s came on the stereo while were eating, and my dad quietly stood up, walked over to my mom at the other end of the table, put out his hand, and led her to an open area a few feet from the table where they quietly danced. The only sounds were the squeaky, muffled giggles and “ewwww’s” coming from the dinner table. This memory is what happiness looks like, and it still brings tears to my eyes to this day.

 It was no surprise that our house was the gathering spot for all of our friends. Anyone who came over was always warmly greeted and welcomed by my mom. Even unexpected visitors, which were most of them, walked right in and took part in whatever activity we had going on. On any given day, at any given moment, there was always at least one extra child there hanging out. But the Mama Bear never skipped a beat. One more after school snack, one more place setting at the dinner table was seamlessly added.

 I remember about 15 years ago, when I was in middle school, a sweet girl named Jennifer stopped by our house to use the phone on her walk home from school one day. She was the older sister of one of my best friends, by about 4 years. We didn’t spend much time with her, and none of us knew her well. I don’t remember the purpose of the phone call, but my Mom was there to help, chatting with her about her day at school. Maybe it was a conversation she didn’t get to have at home, or perhaps it was just having someone to listen, but every day after that, when I arrived home from school, there was Jennifer, perched on a bar stool in the kitchen, telling my mom about her day.

I could literally go on forever about the ways in which my mom enriched our lives, and the time she spent focused entirely on our family. We were so fortunate to have her all to ourselves, and she made the absolute most of every minute. I will forever be indebted to her for the most extraordinary training I could have received. (And to my wonderful Dad for making it all possible) This is the life I want for my own children. This is the gift I want, so badly, to give them. Now I can.

 I feel so blessed, and so incredibly fortunate, to have a front row seat to my children's' lives. But most importantly, I feel lucky beyond comprehension to have a man who understands the value of it, and who wholeheartedly believes in my capabilities as a mother. And, of course, who works endlessly to make it possible.

 For the first time in my life, I feel like I am exactly where I should be. This feeling is indescribable.

My life is about to begin.

 NOTE: I understand that not everyone agrees with my viewpoints on this issue. I know that some people aren’t able to stay home with their children, and some choose not to. I believe that no matter what their parents do, kids can have wonderful, happy, full upbringings.

The First Day of my Life

It is truly amazing how quickly you forget what happened the day your child was born. I’ve read that it’s your body’s way of protecting you, and ensuring that you will continue to reproduce.  But for me, the whole experience was so incredible that even on that same day, I was sure I wanted to do it again. 

So I am going to try and remember every detail, as accurately as possible.  Here it  goes…

Clementine’s Birth Story

My first contraction woke me with a jolt at 3:20am on Monday, February 6. It was a sharp pain, but not too painful or strong. In fact, I wasn’t even sure it was a contraction. I sat still for a moment, and waited for something to happen. Another one came, and then another.  I timed them for a little while, 5-6 minutes apart consistently. I woke Chris, and told him that I may be in labor, but to go back to sleep in case it was a false alarm, and that I would wake him if anything changed.  I got up, walked around, sat on my exercise ball, and continued to time them for another hour, 5 minutes apart.  They were getting progressively stronger, but still manageable. I decided to get in the bath, to help me relax, and ended up soaking for almost an hour, during which they had become 4 minutes apart consistently. By the end of my bath, they were strong enough that I could no longer time them by myself, and had to focus in order to stay relaxed through a contraction. It was 5:30am when I woke Chris to start timing them for me.

Once Chris was up, and realized how close together the contractions were, things got a little nuts. I’m embarrassed to admit that we had not packed a hospital bag, and had yet to install a car seat. So between contractions and bouts of vomiting, I began hollering out items to be packed in our hospital bag like a drunken drill sergeant, while Chris buzzed around the room grabbing everything that seemed even slightly relevant. By the time he finished installing the carseat, it was 7:00am and the contractions were 3 minutes apart, and 50 seconds long.  I had only been in labor for 4 hours, so I didn’t believe I had made much progress.  I wanted to labor at home for as long as possible, so I tried to convince Chris that we didn’t need to leave yet. He was sure we needed to get to the hospital, so at 7:30am, against my will, we left. He called the doc on the way, and explained my contraction pattern, and he too suggested we get there as soon as possible. I was sure they were being dramatic and that I would arrive at the hospital, have no progress, and be turned away.

Boy was I wrong. My first exam at 8:00am revealed that I was at 8 cm, and 100% effaced and that my water had broken. I was simultaneously shocked and relieved. About 30 minutes later I was checked again, and I was at 9cm, but my nurse discovered that she was previously mistaken and that my water had not actually broken. Before I knew it, and without warning, a minor explosion occurred and I was informed that they had ruptured my water. And then things got ugly... really, really ugly.

Up to this point, the contractions were very painful, but nothing I couldn’t manage. Once my water was broken, there was no comparison. I thought I was dying.  I cannot describe the pain. And my favorite thing in the whole world to do is describe things. Holy fricking mackerel.  I immediately began vomiting uncontrollably, which only added to the insane contracting that was already happening. As if the mere strength of the contractions at this point wasn’t enough, they began lasting over a minute long, and occurring every 15-20 seconds. I literally had no recovery time in between them.  My poor little (big) body was still throbbing from the previous contraction when the next one began. I lost it. At the first hint of a new contraction, I would explode with “Nooooooooo! NOOOO! NO! NO! NO!” Yep, I am THAT girl… This continued for the longest, most brutal hour of all time, when I was finally checked again and was at 9.5cm. I was feeling the urge to push (kind of), so the nurse said I could push through the last half centimeter. So I began pushing around 9:30am. The baby still felt really high, so I knew I might be pushing a bit longer than I had anticipated. After an hour of relentless contractions and pushing (incorrectly) with everything I had, I hadn’t made any progress. But I wasn’t discouraged, and the baby wasn’t in distress, so we continued pushing through contractions…

Until my doctor arrived. He arrogantly walked into the room and immediately announced that we would be going into surgery and having a c-section. We were instantly confused and shocked. Why? Nothing was happening that would illicit worry or emergency action. The baby was not in distress, I was not at the point of exhaustion. He informed us that the baby was transverse, and was stuck. We couldn’t understand how this was possible, since she had been perfectly positioned for delivery for months. We argued with him, so he angrily left the room and came back minutes later with an ultrasound machine. Obviously irritated, he quickly did the exam to determine the position of the baby, who, as it so wonderfully turned out, was NOT transverse; just a little teeny bit crooked. So he agreed to give us 30 more minutes to push, leaving us with the delightful threat that “If I don’t see hair by then, I’ll see you in surgery.”

In that moment, Chris disappeared and Coach Kahl was there. My frustration turned into anger and subsequently into motivation. Nothing gets my stubborn self fired up like telling me I can’t do it.  And luckily for us, our nurse Helen, who's performance, let’s be honest, had been less than stellar up to this point (I was on my FOURTH IV port courtesy of her handiwork), kicked into gear, hollering in her thick far-eastern accent “NO C-SECTION! NO C-SECTION!” These were the first words that she had uttered that I had actually understood, and I could not have been happier to hear them. The clock was ticking, and the race was on. I was going to beat Dr. P.

A second nurse arrived with some contraption that required me to pull myself up into the squatting position to push. It was strange and uncomfortable and ineffective and I bagged it in a matter of minutes. We didn’t have time to screw around! But what this second nurse did for me was invaluable- she told me how to push. This may sound ridiculous, especially at this point in my labor, but it was then that I realized that no one had ever actually told me HOW to push. It seems as though it would be instinctual and obvious, it’s not. At least not for me. As soon as I had this information, we were making progress! It was then that a poor, unsuspecting anesthesiologist arrived to go over our upcoming surgery and was immediately bashed, rejected, and verbally attacked before accepting defeat and exiting our room. I took control. Instead of having poor Helen instructing me, I pushed when I felt the strongest contractions, when it hurt the most. Coach Kahl was in full force, with unrelenting encouragement and constant reminders of our incredible goal. Every push from here on out was working, she was coming! The minutes flew by, and boy did we need every single one of them. Before we knew it, there it was, what we had all been waiting for; HAIR. Without us even knowing it, 30 minutes had gone by, but there was no sign Dr. Jekyll P. Little Helen flew out of the room hollering behind her, “STOP POOOSHING STOP POOOSHING!” Ha! Yeah right! After HOURS of desperately trying to get this far, I was not about to stop. So I didn’t. As per usual, the incredibly  inconvenienced Dr. P took his sweet ass time getting back to us, but once he was there, it was just about over. He snapped on his gloves, took his seat, and told me to go ahead and push. After a few pushes (and one UNAPPROVED episiotomy), her head was out, quickly followed by her body. She was here. It was 11:58am.

We were later told by our night nurse that our surgery room had been all set up, and the C-Section was scheduled for Noon… NOON. It’s amazing what 2 measly minutes could mean to someone, what a difference they could make. For us, they were everything.

In the end, it didn’t matter how she got here. Just that she was here. C-Section, no C-Section, Epidural, no Epidural, Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde, it wouldn’t have changed how special that day was. Our Clementine was here, healthy as could be, and our hearts were as full as they had ever been.

Clementine Lane Kahl

She has arrived! Although this update is so incredibly late that it most definitely no longer qualifies as “news”, I feel that there should be some sort of announcement post following my long string of anticipatory posts. So without further ado, I’d like you all to meet the love of my life, my little Emme Lane:

Born February 6, 2012 11:58am 8lb.1oz. 21in. 

With a head full of blonde hair…

She is wonderful and precious and fascinating and simply everything a baby should be and we are beyond proud. 

Her birthday was nothing like we imagined it would be, and definitely not when we imagined it would be. I’m currently working on her birth story, trying to make sure I am recalling it as accurately as possible (it’s incredible how quickly your mind wipes it out…) So stay tuned!

An Ode to Ernie

Okay I know what many of you are thinking: Is she seriously writing about her dog? Well... yes. Yes I am.

The thing is, I have been warned constantly throughout my pregnancy that I need to be prepared for Ernie to be replaced, in every sense, by the new baby.  They say that he will become “just a pet”, or even a nuisance, according to some. And that most likely, the space in my mind and heart that has been completely, effortlessly dedicated to him will soon belong exclusively to her.  I’m not sure that I believe these things, but since I have not yet experienced little C’s arrival, I have no choice but to consider and respect this advice. Therefore, I have decided to record the incredible gift that Ernie has been in my life, so that whatever unpredictable shift that may occur in the upcoming weeks, I can refer back here and remember the crazy, ridiculous, inexplicable, furry love that changed me in so many ways.

Obviously, I love my dog. But really, that does not accurately describe our relationship. He is so much more to me than a pet, it’s actually pretty ridiculous. I have had other dogs in my life, and I loved them too; they were fantastic animals. And arguably better “pets”, in the traditional sense, than Ernie has been. But Ernie is truly my friend. My child. My guardian, my heart.

 I try to explain it to people, usually beginning with something like “It’s like he understands what I’m saying.” Or, “He knows what I’m thinking.” And they generally smile politely, and nod, as I probably would if someone said these things to me. But there are a couple of people that can actually attest to these unbelievable and hilarious characteristics of our relationship, mostly because they have lived with us. One is my brother Bubba, and the other, of course, is Christopher. Chris is my biggest proof because he is a true “convert”. Upon meeting Ernie, he was admittedly afraid, mostly of his intimidating size/coat/breed. He was polite to Ernie, but mostly inconvenienced by his neediness.  Ernie wasn’t allowed in his car, or at his house… not that I asked, but I understood how others saw Ernie, and didn’t push the issue. Needless to say, Ernie spent quite a bit of time with Uncle Bubba those first couple of months.  But over time, I would invite Chris to meet Ernie and I places, the park, the river, pretty much anywhere he was allowed, and almost as quickly as Ernie fell in love with Chris, Chris realized he wasn’t your ordinary mutt. Ernie is not only allowed in Chris’s truck now, the backseat has been specifically customized for Ernie’s optimal riding comfort. We cannot pass a promotional supermarket display of “babies” (Any stuffed animal, intended for pets or not) without Chris picking one out for Ern. It absolutely melts my heart to admit that they have become so close, that I sometimes have to fight for their attention- and my spot in bed. Ernie is no longer “my” dog, he is “our” dog… sometimes even “Chris’ dog.” And as far as his ability to understand us, and know what we are thinking- ask Chris. He’ll tell you. It’s insane.

We’ve come so far, Ernie and I, that I sometimes forget the incredibly strange circumstances under which Ernie came into my life. I had been wanting a dog badly for a very long time, but knew that I couldn’t have one anytime soon. I was a senior in college, with another year ahead of me, and working at Bally as a graphics intern in my free time. I was living in a teeny, tiny house with no time, or space, for a pup. But still, I would peruse the pet classifieds in the newspaper and even sometimes visit pet stores and/or new litters for sale, with no intention to adopt, just to get my furry fix. Somehow, through my online browsing, I was placed on an email list for a rescue shelter in Sparks, NV that sent out weekly adoption updates. The first email I ever received was a picture of two 7-week-old pups; one fawn, one brindle. They were siblings, a girl and a boy. The email indicated they were Mastiff crosses, and the female was beautiful with her traditional Mastiff coloring. I had to see her. I enlisted a friend to come with me, with the strict instructions NOT to let me adopt a dog. We were told to meet the foster parents of the pup at a discount pet supply warehouse in Sparks; we were unsettled by these strange, illegal-drug-deal-transaction-like circumstances, but we went anyway. After about 15 minutes of awkwardly waiting inside the dimly-lit warehouse, the foster family showed up carrying an extra-large kennel. Odd, I thought, for one 7-week-old, 8 lb. pup. But when she opened the gate, out charged an energetic, brindle ball of wrinkles with perhaps the largest paws I had ever seen on a dog, their size emphasized by his hilarious inability NOT to trip over them. He ran up to us as if he recognized us, wagging his tiny tail so hard that it threw his little buns from side to side. I was so enamored with this little creature, his personality so huge and amusing that it was almost thirty minutes before I realized that this was not the dog I had come here to see. I quickly got up to meet her and found that the kennel, and the foster family, were gone. I turned to ask the store clerk where they had gone, when the door chimes sounded and the woman who had been carrying the kennel re-entered, carrying only a piece of paper. She informed me that the paper was the information sheet I had filled out in order to see the pups, and I just needed to sign it. I wasn’t clear on the purpose of this contract, but obliged. She handed me a card with her name and number on it and then bent down to pet the stripy animal sitting on my shoes. And then she was gone. 

Apparently, I had just adopted a dog. I had nothing for a dog. For the first time I realized that it was perhaps a positive thing that I was already at a discount pet supply warehouse; and wondered briefly if this was possibly the reason that this was her meet-and-greet location of choice. I bought everything, dog bowls, collar, leash, dog bed, dog toys, bones. I left feeling prepared, but quickly realized that there was NOTHING, not anything that I could have bought or left with that evening that could have ever prepared me for what was to come. 

As much as I love Ernie, we all know that he hasn’t been the easiest dog. All the time in the world would not be enough to explain the issues he has had. For a healthy animal, he has had more injuries, afflictions, disorders and general hardships than any dog, or pet for that matter, that I have ever heard of. Almost all a direct result of his intense, restless, unrelenting, incurable separation anxiety. I had never heard of separation anxiety before having Ernie, and definitely did not understand it at first. But after thorough research, I began the all-consuming task of curing him. This issue affected everything. He could not be left alone, whether in a crate or free in the house. If he was crated, he would bloody his paws trying to get out. If he was loose in the house, he would tear down every curtain and every set of blinds on every window he could access, destroying anything in his path. The worst part was that he would always somehow hurt himself in the process. I put him on a behavior modification plan, resulting in the most wonderfully obedient pet while I was home, but did not affect his behavior when I was gone. I exercised him to exhaustion; he would fall asleep in the car within moments of leaving the park. But the minute he was alone, he was driven by pure adrenaline and panic and found the energy to attempt his “escape”.  I hired a dog behaviorist to come to my house and work with him. She guaranteed her work, and told me that she had never had a case of separation anxiety that she hadn’t been able to cure. After her third visit, she stopped returning my calls. Needless to say, he was not cured. I bought every edition of Cesar Milan’s dog training manuals, and then when I couldn’t get his technique’s to work myself, applied to be on his TV show. Finally, an anxiety medicine was approved for dogs (previously they had used human valium to treat canine anxiety-no thanks.) so we got a prescription. The medicine, in conjunction with a two-week vacation from work to teach him how to be “happy” in his kennel, (including several nights of me sleeping IN his kennel with him) gave us some peace. He learned to be relaxed while in his “house”, and I knew he was safe. This process, from chaos and thousands of dollars in vet bills to a safe, injury-free daily existence took over a year.  People that meet him now could not begin to understand what it used to be like, and how far we have come, but I am so proud of his progress and of myself for not giving up. (As so many people suggested I do.)

He has taught me, like no one else could, the most incredible patience and understanding. Anger and sadness and frustration would just confuse him and worsen his anxiety, so I had to learn to cope without them. I sacrificed more than I thought possible just to keep him safe and happy – money/stability, friends, opportunities. I often wondered why he and I were put together, when I was so incapable of caring for an animal with his level of needs. But I realize now that he was just preparing me for motherhood. I will undoubtedly be a better mother because of Ernie.

I know that this baby girl will bring new trials and lessons, but I can’t help but notice the sweet similarities between how these two adventures began and how they are connected. Ernie was, after all, my FIRST unexpected blessing. I just hope I have enough room in my heart for both of them.