Max: 1994 - 2009

I made an unplanned visit to my parents' last weekend to say a final goodbye to their dog, Max. (Read his story here.) He was a magnificent dog, but fifteen years is a long life for a shepherd/husky mix. His mind and soul were still there, but his body was tired and every time he fell, a little bit of his dignity chipped away. He still walked every day to the end of the driveway with my dad to get the mail, but it could take a while and he could no longer carry anything back, which must have been awful for him.


A trip to the beach in Ocean Shores in March.

The day before he died, we lifted him into the car and drove to the beach, where he meandered forever and resisted going back to the car. He ate an ice cream cone on the drive home (an old treat from his agility training days), and enjoyed a cheeseburger back at the house (an old treat from his therapy dog days). Later, my mom fried a steak for a bedtime snack, and we all had a few bites. It was a good day.


Tuckered out.

He happily finished that steak the next day while we waited for the vet. The weather was perfect and we put him in the shade so he could be outside, which he loved. He went peacefully, with the hands of the three people who loved him most stroking his body. After they took him, we cried and sat around trying to convince ourselves it was the right thing for Max. It was.


His credentials.

My dad and I used to joke about starting a Church of Max, because he was all about love — pure, unconditional, joyful love. There wasn't a malicious bone in his body (except for that one unfortunate squirrel incident), and I swear he had a better sense of humor than most people I know. He was so smart, he learned what "walk on the beach" sounded like when spelled out. And he smelled yummy, behind his ears where his fur was all velvety.


Last week, in the garden.

We're heartbroken now, but so grateful he came into our lives. I don't at all like the idea of a world without his unique energy, especially for my parents. But I like to think some of his love for life rubbed off on all of us and will stay forever. Stay, Max.

Time flies.

Sometimes I look at Grace and I can't believe how grown up she is. Makes me want to stop time, or at least slow it down so I can catch my breath.


How did she go from this...


...to this?

A love story.

When Michael first met Brady, I believe he said something to the effect of, "I can't stand it when people spoil their dogs. I don't feed them scraps and I won't put up with any crap." Guess who now pours chicken broth over her dry kibble, feeds her leftovers, lets her outside twenty times a day and buys fancy dog biscuits? She L-O-V-E-S him (duh), but she also obeys his every command — in German.


When Michael sits, so does Brady. On him.


She's a shameless tart.


They just want to be alone.


It's just embarrassing, isn't it?

Discovery.

We've spent a lot of time outside lately, enjoying the weather and exploring our new yard. We've tried to be patient, rather than tearing out anything that looks like a weed or that we can't identify, and we've been rewarded with surprises that just keep coming. (We've added touches of our own.) It's such fun to see the beauty unfold through Grace's eyes.


I'm not a big rhody fan, but these were pretty spectacular (made more so by Michael deadheading them, which is a pain).


We have two bushes, one on either side of the front gate, and we had no idea they would bloom so beautifully!


Potential. You should see them now.


It's hard to resist blossoms like these; I wish they lasted longer.


Our hummingbird magnet, right outside the kitchen window.


This is one of my favorite plants, golden euonymous, and I will plant it wherever I live, for it's burst of color and indestructibility.


We thought the violas were goners, but they're thriving.


We waited too long to get the alyssum in the ground, and it's still touch and go. They, and the lobelia, would stand a much better chance if Brady would quit stomping all over them.

Shake 'n bake toddler.

I'm not a fan of sandboxes, for many reasons that I will not go into. Grace loves them, of course, and when I went to pick her up at school yesterday, I could not believe my eyes. Head to toe, covered in sand. No joke.


Slather a kid with sunscreen, give them some time in the "sensory tub" filled with water and then cut 'em loose in a big 'ol sandbox and you know what you get? A child who is literally breaded with sand. As if the sand stuck to her body wasn't bad enough, I watched as a little boy scooped a shovelful and poured it over her head. (She didn't notice.) I don't care so much about my car, but on the way home all I could think about was how to get her from the front door directly into the tub. To make matters worse, I had made the mistake of uttering the "b" word at school, whereupon she began wailing, "I don't WANT to take a BATH!" and didn't stop until she was in the bath. Then there was the drama of washing her hair (she has A LOT of hair), which must have the neighbors wondering what that blonde lady does to cause that sweet little girl to scream as though she were being professionally tortured. I wish I had taken a picture of Grace before and after, or at least gotten a shot of the sand at the bottom of the tub, but I was pretty goal-oriented. So instead, here are the toys required to keep her distracted enough that I could actually wash her, which was apparently excruciatingly painful.

I'm off to pick up the little kiddo right now. I'm afraid.

Oops.

Enough said.

The stuff that Brady's dreams are made of.

The squirrels relentlessly pilfer seeds from the bird feeder inches from our kitchen window. I've seen ONE bird, but at least three squirrel heists. (The underbelly of a squirrel is not nearly as cute as you might think when it is dangling outside the window while you eat your granola.) Grace goes into some sort of spastic overload when this happens; if Brady ever sees what's going on IN HER OWN YARD, she will likely launch herself onto the kitchen table and through the window.


Boldly eyeballing us through the window. Cheeky bugger.


Even Grace's hysterics didn't deter him.


Pretty nimble.


Seriously, how is this possible?


Greedy little dude just kept eating. I can relate.

Fashion misfire.

If the front door is open, Grace will dash through it. Rarely, however, will she do so without first putting on shoes. I was a barefoot country girl, so I'm a little disappointed by this, but what can you do?


Note the loafers. Combined with the jammies, I couldn't help but laugh. I know she was thinking, "You take Brady out in your underwear, Mom."

Gittin' down and dirty.

We spent lots of quality time with Mother Earth this weekend. Grace was not nearly as helpful as I thought she'd be, given her experience planting vegetables and fruits on day trips with her old school. Mostly she wanted to pick up dirt, rocks, watering cans or garden tools, then either throw them or put them in her mouth. Also, no matter how many times I insist plants are living things and that I can hear their screams when she rips off their leaves, she remains unconvinced. (I'm kind of glad she's not that gullible.) But it was good exercise running after Grace to keep her from inflicting serious harm on herself, us or the plants, and meanwhile Michael got the entire front bed planted. I suspect we irritated a few neighbors with Gigi's shrieking, Brady's barking at everything that moves and my yelling at both of them to BE QUIET FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!


I got Grace some of her own gardening tools so she would feel like a valuable member of the team (okay, I got them because they were cute). When I told her to go get her blue bucket, she disappeared, then came 'round the corner of the house like this. Swear to God.


Monkey see, monkey do.


Grace kept picking up dirt and sprinkling it on the plants. I asked her to stop but she informed me that the plants were hungry and she was feeding them.


I was not allowed to wear my hat. It looks way cuter on her, anyway.


Both were tuckered out after lunch, Grace from "planting weeds" and Brady from carrying out her duties as the compound's security detail.

Conflicted.

"Mommy, I have to poop."
"Great! Let's go sit on the potty."
Into the bathroom, on the potty, I start to sing the potty song (Pink Martini's "Hold On Little Tomato").
"DON'T SING!" (Swings ducky at me.)
"Do you need to poop?"
"NO! I DON'T WANT TO POOP!"
(Brief silence while I rub my eyes until they almost bleed.) "Okay. Let's just sit here for a little — "
"SING!"
"The sun has left and forgotten me. It's dark, I cannot see..."
"The poop won't come out." Look of distress.
"But you didn't even push — "
"NO POOP TONIGHT!" Heavy sigh.
"Okay then. Let's brush your teeth."
"I DON'T WANT TO BRUSH MY TEETH!!!"

Believe it or not, after all the drama of preparing for bed, we have the sweetest routine that leaves me in tears almost every night. She puts on her pajamas, then sits with me in her rocking chair with her arms and legs wrapped around me while I rub her back and we whisper about the day. Then into her bed with a quick story, song, back tickle and kiss good night. As I leave the room she calls out, "Good night Mommy. I love you." And no matter what kind of day we've had, my heart practically pops out of my chest like a cartoon character.

Sick kiddo.

The worst part about Grace being sick (like, barfing sick) is knowing how awful she feels and not being able to do anything about it. That, and the fact that she is heartbreakingly stoic. Also, since I can't bring myself to force her into the bath, I clean her up as best I can and then later, while she's watching "The Secret Garden" for the four hundredth time, she says, "I smell barf." We all smell barf, honey — IMAGINE POOR BRADY. (Who, while we're on the subject of vomit, recently got into the compost, came into the house and promptly threw up coffee grounds and egg shells. Good thing it's a rental.) Anyway, send healthy, stomach-settling vibes Gigi's way.

Happy Mother's Day, I think.

I'm fairly certain that nobody explained Mother's Day to Grace, or I can't imagine there would have been nearly as much shrieking and carrying on today. She's sick, so sick in fact that she let me put her hair in pigtails, so I'll cut her some slack. This year. (Brady was extra-special nice to me all day.)


This is Gigi, pretending to be me. Her exact words? "I'm working. Go away." Ouch.

Believe it or not, this is progress.

I can't believe Brady stayed put while I got the camera.


I wish I could say that Brady and Grace have a love/hate relationship, but there's precious little love going on. Usually, when Brady dares venture into Grace's room or near any of Grace's things, Grace gestures wildly and yells, "Go away Brady! Don't touch that! Mommy, SHE'S STEPPING ON MY BLANKET!" For some reason (possibly because I've begun comparing her to Colin in "The Secret Garden"), last night Grace relented and had a little fun with the canine creature. Brady may look miserable, but believe me, she's so happy to be getting attention, she allowed this to go on for quite a while, tolerating Grace feeling her forehead and pretending to give her medicine. (Grace has been sick, I've been sick, we've all been sick, so the taking and/or giving of medicine will be a part of Grace's playacting for weeks.)

A happy visit.

Sandi, Grace's part-time nanny from way back when, came for a visit last weekend.


I kept my yap shut until I knew for sure it would happen THAT DAY, because as soon as I told Grace the news, every conversation went something like this:

"Do you want an apple or a pear with lunch?"
"Is Sandi coming now?"
"After your nap, bug."

"Do you need to use the potty?"
"Is Sandi coming now?"
"Not yet. After your nap."

"Stop kicking Brady, Gigi."
"Is Sandi coming now?"
"After your nap."

Pause.

"Will Sandi come into my room after — "
"AFTER YOUR NAP, GRACE."

She was so excited she stayed up later than usual, then slept forever. When Sandi got here, we waited as long as we could before going into sleepyhead's room, then I watched as they had one of their love fests where Grace clings to Sandi like a monkey until we peel her off physically. Afterwards we went to the park and watched Grace screech, "There's a bug! A bug! THERE'S A BUG, MOMMY!"

John told me his mom once took him to visit a woman who took care of him when he was little, and how awkward it was because he didn't remember her at all. I won't let that happen with Grace; Sandi was part of the family and basically taught me how to do everything, including how to not die from worrying too much. So I'll make sure Grace knows that Sandi is largely responsible for both of us being alive.

I need a hobby.

It is 8:15 on a Sunday morning, and Grace is still sleeping. I made sure she's breathing. Even Brady hasn't gotten up yet. I have absolutely no idea what to do with myself. So I blog.

I don't like Thursdays.

Each Thursday I drop Grace off at school knowing I will not see her until Saturday night. She reads my mood and insists on hugging and kissing more than usual before I leave her. And on Saturday night, she will regard me with some disgruntlement and tell me, "I missed you, Mommy." She also misses Daddy when she's here, which makes me wish she didn't have to miss anyone at all.


There was a protracted discussion about today's outfit, but I believe we both came away feeling satisfied with the results.

Home sweet home.

The house we're renting is the first I've lived in with any curb appeal. It may be tiny on the inside, but we have a huge front porch, a big brick patio in the back, and a fully fenced yard (front and back) so that Brady can reach top speed running all the way around the house. I suspect we'll be spending most of the summer outside.


Grace loves it out here until she sees a bug; then she runs screaming into the house.


Michael decided to give the beard a shot until he realized how gray it is. It's gone now.


This one's for you, Stinsons. Remember door shopping? I finally got one of these do-hickeys.

On personal hygiene.

"Mommy. Your hair is icky."
"My hair is fine. You're the one with jelly in your hair."
"Here, I'll cut out the icky parts." (Pretends to cut off all of my hair.)
"Great. How about a bath to clean up your hair?"
"NO NO NO! I DON'T WANT TO TAKE A BATH!"
"Okay, okay, your hair is fine. How's mine look?"
"Mommy, your hair is SO PRETTY."

Still my baby.

Last night after her bath, Grace decided she would be sleeping in her "mosey basket." I love that she still climbs in there, particularly since she claims she remembers when she was a baby and she "slept here with Mommy next to me." Lately I've been climbing into bed with her in the morning, which I love and she tolerates. (I'm looking forward to nights when she has nightmares so I'll have an excuse to wrap myself around her little body.)

When I was little my mom used to tickle my back when I was sick or upset, or just because she was my mom, something I still find so enjoyable I've been tempted to hire someone to do it by the hour. (Because it's never enough.) I couldn't wait to perform this service for Grace, but she didn't like it until one weekend spent with Gabba (my mom), who obviously has the magic touch. Now when I put her to bed she asks, "Tickle my back?" And when I stop she begs, "Tickle my back again?" Last night she looked up at me and whispered, "I love having my back tickled SO MUCH — it feels like being in the water with fish swimming all around me." That gave me even bigger goosebumps than a good back tickling does, because how in the world would she know what that feels like? Spooky.

Beautiful mind

Grace has been blowing me away lately with her intellectual, conceptual and potty progress, and I imagine it's just a matter of time before she'll start using words I'll have to look up.


I should wake up this chipper.


Installation with Multimedia by Grace Czarobski. Note the use of maracas, a harmonica and a Nutcracker cartridge from a musical toy. Before I was able to capture the row of dinosaurs guarding this tower, I slipped and knocked it over. Like daughter, like mother?

Paradise, part III

Until my mom sends the photos she shot, this concludes the Sequim vacation series. I promise.


My mom has been collecting old ladders, and I love how they look scattered about the orchard.


These trunks captivated me for some reason. They look like bones that have been picked clean. Very wintry.


It won't be long before all the buds start blooming and my parents' property is awash in color.


I'm afraid I've seen Max for the last time. He probably wondered why I kept lying on the floor next to him, crying.


Big bunny. GIGANTIC TV. 'Nuff said.

Paradise, part II

More pics in what is sure to become an increasingly boring series for everyone but me and my mom!


Rocks are very serious business in a child's world. I believe Michael was quizzing Grace on which was the largest, the smallest, the darkest, etc.


Clearly pleased with herself for many, many reasons.


Flying in the orchard. I can no longer lift her this way, which renders me somewhat inferior in her eyes.


Three generations of dirty blonds.


The male bonding going on here will forever remain a mystery to me. It has something to do with being in the Navy, knowing how to fix things with tools, and a profound appreciation for things that blow up.

A weekend in paradise.

We took a long weekend to visit my parents, and I have a ridiculous number of pictures I must share so that my proud mommy head doesn't explode. Here are just a few for now. My parents' place in Sequim is magical for Grace, and she was adamant about not leaving. And then she was asleep once we'd been on the road for five minutes.

Oh, and check out the top right corner over there. BUY MY BOOK!


She did this on her own. On Valentine's Day. Seriously.


Curious little bugger...


All she found was a spider web.


I cannot begin to count my mom's windchimes, and Grace must touch and listen to all within reach.

Cute kids...

When I began this blog, I emailed friends and family to let them know I'd be posting pictures of Grace from time to time. (I did this because I am lazy, and I was tired of emailing photos to each person individually.) I also promised to keep the rambling to a minimum, but because I am a writer I broke that promise almost immediately. I love to write, and blogging helped me feel connected and gave me a medium in which to vent my frustrations and share my joys of parenting (in that order, it turns out). Now I feel as though I've reached a plateau, where my frustration and joy remain at fairly constant, unremarkable levels. I suspect that's because Grace is older and more predictable, or maybe I've finally hit upon the correct combination of mood stabilizers. Either way, Grace is old enough that I feel she deserves some privacy, especially while she's making the transition from toddler to little girl, and from a two-parent household to a two-household parenting situation. Also, I spend too much time here when I now have facebook, email, that other blog, my author's website, and another novel to which I should be tending. So I'll continue to post photos, but limit the commentary to captions. Really. Oh, and I'll continue to rotate photos of my current celebrity crushes, of course.


All dressed up for a birthday party. Yup, those are tights, and we wrestled for about fifteen minutes before I prevailed.


A corner of one's own. (That photo above her is my first dog, Dutchie.)

The house that Grace built.

Grace, my little three-and-a-half-year-old kamikaze, designed and built this today, which resulted in a conversation between me and my roommate that went something like this: (I tweaked it a bit for the photo.)

"Did you do that?"
"No. Did you?"
"Seriously, did you do it?"
"No. I think Grace did."
"Come on. DID YOU DO IT?"
"Laurel, I swear I didn't do it."
"Did you help her?"
"Nope."
Silence.
"Huh."
"Huh."