Three Dog Night

Yeah, I know.  It's a knitting blog.  But something followed me home from my sister's house which is way cuter than anything I'm knitting at the moment:

This is Barclay, Susie's Westie.  He needed a day at the beauty spa, so Susie and her kids said he could come home to Portland with me for a vacation.  Now that I can groom Scotties, it seemed like I ought to be able to help out a Westie - he IS our cousin, after all.

Everybody's having a good time together:

from left: Paisley, Bailey and Barclay on the kitchen island.

They all got hairdoos (over the course of 3 days, that is - turns out I groom dogs way slower than I knit), after which it seemed like there should be a photo.  The only way I could get everyone to hold still long enough was to put them someplace too high to jump off of.  Though as you can see, Bailey was thinking about it anyway.

Morning walkies are quite a parade, but as long as the doo-doo baggies hold out, we should be okay.  This weekend we're heading up to Redmond for the Black and White Festival, where I'm sure the Mother Ship will be waiting for us all.

Anybody know where to find a pattern for an Argyle dog sweater?

Mother's Day

For me, Mother's Day is one of those Greeting Card holidays: created by men in suits to tap into our guilt as negligent offspring to sell cards, flowers, and macaroni (for the necklaces, you know).  I have long considered it the second most maudlin and demeaning of days, after Valentines Day (If you are In Love, Valentines are redundant, at best.  If you are Out of Love, Valentines are nothing but chocolate-covered cruelty).

It seems to me that if someone is lucky enough to have a mother to celebrate, he or she would be doing so all year long. 

Remember the time when your single mother had to go out of town on business, and rather than leave you at home in the care of your tyrannical older siblings, she turned up in your English class and told the teacher she was taking you with her for a "Field Learning Experience"?  Remember how she asked the teacher for your homework because she'd be taking you with her right now, thank you very much, and all your friends died of jealousy?  That was the real Mothers Day. 

Remember when you had your first apartment and you had to spend all your money having your pet cat cremated, and Mom sent a check to the electric company in your name so the lights would still be on while you cried?  That was the real Mothers Day. 

Remember when you told your mom that you'd found the love of your life, and you were going to marry him, even though she hated his guts?  Remember that her response was not "Over my dead body", but "Oooh - what kind of gown are we going to make?"  That was the real Mothers Day.

Remember when the baby wouldn't stop crying and you hadn't slept in days?  Your mother materialized out of nowhere with a casserole under one arm and the magic can't-miss rubber ducky that had been your favorite thing when you were 8 months old under the other?  Remember how she sent you to bed, did the laundry and poured a drink for the son-in-law she still hated?  That was the real Mothers Day.

And so even though I am now a seasoned, card-carrying Mommy, The first weekend in May is still not about me at all.  Nor will it be, until I no longer have my own Mom to celebrate all year long.  Sure, my own Smallies will make me gorgeous macaroni necklaces.  They will bring me breakfast in bed, including gummy bears and burnt toast.  They'll pick the most beautiful flowers they can find for me in the vacant lot down the street.  And I will cherish them deeply.  But not more than the expressions on their faces when I show up to bust them out of school for the afternoon.  Not more than the way they throw their arms around me when I come home from teaching at the knitting retreat.  And certainly not more than when they take the time to thank me for cooking the dinner, and washing the clothes, and helping with the homework.

This May, I am blessed and lucky to be spending some days with my mom.  Time and infirmity have changed her from the sassy rogue who raised me into a different sort of person entirely.  And while I'm sad to kiss that lady from my past goodbye, I'm also glad for the chance to spend time with this slower, quieter version of her.  She still knows me very well indeed, and though many of our old stories have slipped away from her, she still finds who I am today fairly interesting.  She taught me to knit, but takes no credit for my joy and success with it.  She taught me to parent, but insists that my children are a triumph all my own.  She taught me to pitch a tent, read a map, and tie an orthopedic shoelace knot that will never come undone.  She taught me to laugh loudly, to cry softly, and to keep on pushing forward no matter what.  And she taught me that if I properly love my children, they will know that every day is Mothers Day, all the year long. 

Thank you Mom, for this, and all the 27,739 other Mother's Days, to date.
 

It's All in the Pacing

I nearly stepped on this little guy this morning on the way to the car.  The routine at my sister's house is different to the one I have at home, but strangely familiar.  In the mornings I drive Susie to the ferry instead of letting her walk.  It gives us 10 minutes together to compare notes each morning: 5 while we pour the coffee into travel mugs, and 5 in the car on the way to the boat.  So even though I'm still rushing around in the mornings, its a different kind of rush. 

Returning home, I saw that Gary (not his actual name) had slimed himself 2 whole tulips farther along the driveway than where I'd left him.  And it occurred to me that this small creature, house on back, snail-trail distribution system engaged, had his own morning commute to contend with.  For all I know, he has to be all the way to the mailbox by nine, or all the good bugs will be taken, and then it's nothing but work work work to find something for the little snail-lets to eat for lunch.  And of course, there's the talking to he'll get from Mrs. Gary:  "How hard can it BE, for pity sake?  I bust my shell around here all day to make a nice snail pit (nest? lair?) for you and the little ones, and all I ask is that you get out there and come home with a few lousy grubs, for crying out loud..."  Poor Gary.  And to think he almost never made it to the mailbox at all.  One inch closer and I'd have smashed him into an even slimier mess than he already is.  Funny he didn't stop to thank me, even when I came back to take his picture.

My mom's pace is different, too.  She has this four-wheel drive, walky-wheely thing that she shoves along in front of her as she goes now.  Her cane was no longer helping her as much as she needed, so on doctor's orders (A phrase she LOVES hearing me repeat, by the way), she now has Scooty.  I named her walky thing that in a feeble attempt to help her make friends with it.  Scooty is sometimes her friend (in that she has not fallen down lately), but mostly a pain in her ass.  Mom is not taking lightly to her new, more reserved land speed.  And I feel for her.  Once, while she was napping, I took Scooty out for a spin myself, hoping to better understand what it's like for her now.  I walked at the same speed I've seen her do.  I lifted each foot the same half-inch off the ground that she does.  I sat down and tried to use Scooty to pull myself up, using only the strength in my legs. 

And it Sucked.  All of it.  And it made me mad.  And I silently promised Mom not to use the phrase "Doctor's Orders" anymore.

So Gary, baby, I feel your pain.  Sometimes the destination IS the issue, not the sightseeing along the way.  Here's to all God's creatures getting where we need to, in the time we have to do it.

Godspeed, Gary.