Be nice to me, I’m a trainee.

I’m going to file my experiences today under “seemed like a good idea at the time.”  You know, like attachment parenting, lime green pants and a ChuckECheese birthday party.

Why is it that I get a wild hair and, instead of shaving it off, toy with it until it feels like something beautiful?  Several months ago I was (not sleeping) crusing the interwebz late at night and reading all my favorite blogs.  Finishing my lessons on life and literature, I mindlessly cruise.  And end up on a local website devoted to animals for adoption.  Days later, I kept going back.  And again.  And there was this one dog…Maya.

I asked about her via email and found out that she’d been adopted.  I took it as a sign and moved on.  Wild hair tamed.  Six weeks later, I’m going through old emails and click on the website again.  Maya was still listed.  So I email and ask if it was a mistake that she was still there.  No mistake.  She’d been adopted by an older couple who discovered that Maya had a little too much energy for them.  No shit.  I arrange to meet her.  Not wanting to take the littles but I did anyway because nobody was around to watch them for me.

They fell in love and I thought this was something I could do.  I wrote the check and claimed her as our own.  Her foster family agreed to keep her until our travels were over.  We got her a bed and some food and treats and toys. 

It was a good idea at the time.  Right?  I am not going to act on this impulse but now I’m not so sure.  I can’t tell if Maya is happy or not.  She’s getting better about the jumping.  Amelia even plays with her.  But it’s me.  I’m the one having adjustment issues.

Maya follows me around all day.  And just when the littles have pretty much quit doing that all day.  Maya wants to sleep in my bed and was not amused (although tolerated) being crated last night.  And then woke before dawn’s early light to go out and pee because she refused to set foot in the snow last night.  I’m not used to a layer of dog hair on me and everything we own.  Yet another living thing that I have to be responsible for raising right.

Or maybe it’s just cabin fever.  Maybe Ella really, really needed to be in school today but wasn’t due to the ongoing ice problem that has turned the entire town and its outlying areas into one giant hockey rink.  I wish I were kidding.  When we came home from a birthday party yesterday afternoon (Happy 4th birthday Kaden), kids were skating in their driveways.  Ice skating.  Neat.

So here’s an idea.  I’m going to save my pennies or save my sewing slush fund and hire someone (or a legion of someones) to come and deep clean this place.  Of course then I’d have to pick up all the junk off the floor.  But still.  The dust and sticky floor (which isn’t as sticky now because there is DOG HAIR stuck to the sticky spots) and cluttered counters are making me crazy.  But I feel like I spend my days defusing effing bombs for a living. 

Between the potty training (turns out I’m not trained well enough to take Amelia to the potty so now I have laundry…we were doing so well…), the dog, Christmas break and general crappy finances…I might just go just a little bit crazy.

And I’m fresh out of xanax.  Nice.


One thought on “Be nice to me, I’m a trainee.

  1. Hang in there! That happens to me every time I bring a new dog home. It’s always a bit overwhelming at first, as you get to know each other and the habits and routines of the household. Just look at all the changes Maya has had in her life in the past year. Remember Darwin and Brody spending their fist six months together trying to kill each other? And Darwin’s fence running and mud bogging? OK, he still does those, but I’ve gotten used to them! 😉

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s