Mooooovin' on up!

So one day a couple of months ago, I realized that my commute made me want to kill myself.

Well, not really, but that drive is really a terrible way to start and end one's day.  The daily traffic report was usually just a narration of what was in store for me.  An hour after I left home in the morning, I arrived at my office.  An hour or more after I left my office in the evening, I would get home.  We've been eating dinner at 6:30 every night, and that makes the rest of the evening rushed and hectic.

We're in the northwest part of town, which is lovely, but it's just such a pain in the ass to get just about anywhere.  We started talking about where else in town we could live.  After an exhaustive two-week search, we found a house.  Not only am I shaving 15 miles off my commute (EACH FREAKING WAY), but Rob is knocking 15 miles off his frequent shleps to the airport AND we're gaining 1000 square feet of house.

WIN!

It's happened pretty quickly.  We're likely going to close on the new (to us) house on March 31.  We're looking to move  the 2nd weekend of April.  This means that we have approximately 40 days to put all of our stuff in boxes.  Anyone who knows me knows that I've already started packing.  Anyone who REALLY knows me knows that I have a packing schedule laid out and that I have a spreadsheet of where stuff will go in the new house.  Anyone who has to live with me just shakes his head and lets me go on with my bad self, and he'll thank me in two months when we've executed a stress-free relocation.

So that's the news.  It's very exciting, and we think we've found a really lovely place where our little family can settle and thrive.  It will also be very nice to gain back one entire hour every single day that can be spent doing something other than flipping off assholes in traffic commuting.

Ava Be Two!

For the sake of posterity:

• Birthday breakfast was homemade blueberry pancakes.  Everyone was late to work and school, and it was totally worth it.
• When you take a box of funfetti cake mix and a tub of lard-based frosting to daycare, they will make and serve cupcakes to the birthday girl and everyone in the class.  WIN.
• Rob's in Portland as of this afternoon, so we went to dinner with Grams&Gramps at Macayo Vegas, where I have eaten my entire life (we actually went to the newest location, not the one at the corner of East Charleston and South Crackho Blvd. where we went when I was a kid...).  Macayo serves Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, so Ava has deemed it an acceptable alternative to dining at home.
• Some presents happened this morning, but the bulk will happen on Saturday, when we will officially observe Ava's birthday (much in the same way the Queen observes her own birthday months later when the weather's nicer).  Family, friends, and classmates will be gathering at the local children's museum, where they do every. single. bit. of party prep and clean-up, which means that everybody (esp. me) wins.

This is what Two looks like at our house:

Happy birthday, boopy.

Fari Vagnari a Pizzu

"'Ah, young fellow,' he said to Vito. 'People tell me you're rich. You and your two friends. But don't you think you've treated me a little shabbily? After all, this is my neighborhood and you should let me wet my beak.'"

--Don Fanucci
The Godfather by Mario Puzo

For dinner, Ava will eat blueberries and Kraft Cheese & Macaroni, the occasional handful of spaghetti, dinner rolls and snack crackers. That's it. She'll eat plenty of traditional breakfast and lunch foods, but dinners have really become a challenge. And it's frustrating because we get the reports from daycare and she's eaten cheese enchiladas for lunch and I'm like "WTF?!"

That ended today. Today, Ava ate her damn dinner. We're not proud of our methods, and when she goes on Dr. Phil someday and he says "Well shoot, Ava, when do you think your food issues started?" we can all look back on this day and then Dr. Phil can ramble on to us about some bullshit about how we failed as parents.

But dammit, today Ava ate her damn dinner.

We've always been very aware of what she eats. We don't feed her crap. We did not buy a single jar of baby food because I made everything she ate when she switched to solids. We feed her the best food we can afford--organic produce, fresh eggs from the farm just up the road, we read labels obsessively, and she doesn't get high-fructose corn syrup or partially hydrogenated oil of any sort.

But when she stopped eating, we got desperate. Damn you, Kraft foods, and your stupid mac & cheese. We switched to the Kirkland organic macaroni & cheese, because that made us feel better even though we know it's still crap. Those horrible Tyson chicken nuggets that are shaped like freaking Mickey Mouse, God help us, are another favorite. When that bag of deep fried mechanically separated tortured chickens was gone, we decided that we would just make our own damn nuggets, and I did. It wasn't hard--the internets have lots of information about how to make your own healthier versions of crappy food. And she refused to even touch them. She won't eat any vegetables, not even carrots or peas anymore.

I'm going to take this opportunity to give Rob some props. He's as crafty as they come, and he saw that this was going to take more than just "Well, she'll eat when she's hungry." Rob had a brilliant idea. Tonight, we found out what Ava's currency is. What does Ava love more than anything in this world? More than Elmo or Blue's Clues or the green blanket? M&Ms. We just happened to have some.

"Ava, do you want an M&M?"
"OK!"
"Then eat one bite of that."
"NOM"

"Do you want another M&M?"
"YES!"
"Then eat 2 bites."
"NOM NOM"

"Do you want another M&M?"
"YES ANEMENEM!"
"Then finish it."

And damn if she didn't finish an entire homemade and previously untouchable organic free range chicken nugget and two dried plums.

Go ahead. Call CPS. I dare you. Because you have a price too. Ava's currency is M&Ms. In the future, she'll have to work harder to get each one. My goal is for her to finish her entire meal for two M&Ms. The amount of good healthy food she will have to eat for each M&M far outweighs the negative impact of this bribery. As long as our little Don Fanucci cleans her plate, she can have an M&M or two. This is my neighborhood, now, and if she wants the good stuff, she's going to have to earn it.

Tomorrow, she's going to eat tilapia. She's going to love it.

Ugh. Parenting sucks.

We are currently in parenting hell.

Ava bit Rob at bedtime. Biting is an immediately punishable offense, but that punishment is mitigated instantly by the word "Sorry". Punishment consists of Time Out, and a stern description of why Time Out is necessary.

All she needed to do was say "Sorry". We explained it more than once. We said "When you bite, it hurts, and saying 'sorry' makes it better" but she would not say it. We asked if she understood and she said "OK" which is the same as "yes". We sang the "Don't! Don't! Don't Bite Your Friends!" song from Yo Gabba Gabba. We said "If you don't say 'sorry' then it's bedtime right now, and Daddy won't rock you in the chair" and she got upset and said No! and held on tighter, but she needs to say she's sorry.

She needs to learn this lesson. Right? Sigh.

She cried that awful screeching angry cry that you only hear in times of extreme injustice. She cried for me, which kills me. Ooof. We went back in, picked her up, and explained it again. She knows that if she says "Sorry" then she'll get to cuddle in the rocking chair with me or Rob. But she will not say it.

She's awake and she's talking to Elmo and Monkey and Bear and Other Bear, and if we hear her tell them she's sorry, that may be good enough. That will give us something to work with. Man, this sucks.

We're going to order her some birthday gifts that are laden with guilt, because while we know it's our job to teach her that saying "Sorry" is important, we're hanging by a thread. Elton John was right--Sorry seems to be the hardest word. We're sorry too, little Boopy, but you just don't bite anyone. Ever.

"Close your eyes, mama!"

Ava has this funny new game, in which she demands that her opponent close his/her eyes. She then waits a beat to make sure the eyes are closed ("CLOSE EYES MAMA CLOSE EYES") and then she gets right up close and blows a raspberry, and then she laughs maniacally.

It's a very accurate representation of what life with Ava is like lately. The stuff she comes up with just astonishes us. I don't even know how many words she knows at this point. She speaks in sentences and describes where she is, what she's doing, what she wants to do, and what she thinks everybody else needs to do as well. Her daily reports from daycare have become so diplomatic: "Today, Ava put everybody down for naps over and over again. She had so much fun! Most of the other kids did too... for a while..." Yikes. I think this is a nice way of telling me that my kid managed to convince a dozen other two-year-olds that it's just easier if they do what she says.

Christmas was a Very Big Deal at our house this year. Last year, we just sort of posed her like a doll in front of decorations. This year, she KNEW. She knew Santa Claus was coming, although I don't think she knew what that meant until Christmas morning when saw the presents in the living room. She learned some Christmas songs--there's this great version of Jingle Bells by Frank Sinatra that she wanted to hear over and over until I just COULD NOT BEAR ANOTHER MOMENT OF IT. But I'd play it because she'd sing along. Best Christmas ever. EVER.

Next up is her birthday. She's going to be TWO YEARS OLD in two weeks. I just can't believe it. We have a two-year-old. I remember thinking how hard it was those first weeks, when she was so small. We had no idea what we were doing. We still don't, but we're better at getting help when we needed it. I recently asked my Posse of Ninja Moms about how to implement Time Outs. Yeah, that's where we are. Discipline is now the order of the day. Ava gets frustrated and angry (GOSH I DON'T KNOW WHERE SHE GETS THAT SHUT UP) and she will hit whoever or whatever is closest. Usually, it's me. She's got a pretty good arm, but we want to help her learn to use her powers for good and not evil, so we had to step up and be parents and now, she's starting to realize that if she hits anyone she's in Time Out, no matter where we are. If she's not listening, or sassing (seriously, a 2-year-old, sassing? YES.) then she gets a 3-count, and then she's in Time Out. I mocked the idea of Time Out, because it just seems so pointless and passive. But it works. We've been doing it for maybe 2 weeks, and damn you SuperNanny, you know what you're doing. It may not work forever, but it works for now and we'll take it.

I'm home this week, and Ava was at daycare Monday and yesterday so I could take care of some bidness and run some errands, but she's home with me today and tomorrow, and I love it. I love taking her places because she's so damn cute and people just smile when they see her. She's so much fun, 99% of the time. The remaining 1% is, well, I guess, that's parenting.

Nom Nom Nom

Dear Auntie Beth,



xoxo,

Ava

The Rainbow Connection

When Ava was Very Very Small, we discovered that she liked it when we sang songs while rocking her to sleep. So we began to expand our repertoire of Songs that Can Be Lullabies. Really, slow any song down, and it can lull a baby to sleep.

We kept coming back to one song. I didn't even know that I knew this one all the way through, but evidently when it's 2AM and you're grasping at lullaby straws, you find treasures at the bottom of the barrel. Ava's go-to lullaby is The Rainbow Connection. I've sung it (...doing quick math... 22 months times 4 weeks per month times 7 nights per week... equals....) one billion times now.

A couple of months ago, she starting humming along. She recognized it when it came on in the car (it's on my iPod because it's awesome; see also "Bein' Green" and "C is for Cookie"). This morning, after we hit the Maximum Number of TV Shows For a Toddler (two in a row...) I turned on music so she could dance. The first song on the Pandora station? The Rainbow Connection.





I KNOW.

She's learning songs at school, and she really does love to sing. She knows Baa Baa Black Sheep, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, ABCs (my whole life, it didn't occur to me that these were the same melody, thank you Mozart.), Itsy Bitsy Spider, and so many more that surprise us (um, Paparazzi by Lady Gaga? Boogie Shoes? Check.).

This week we had our first Official Parent Conference. Holy Nervousness, Batman. I mean, I know she's brilliant, but do others realize it? Yes, apparently they do:

"Ava has a growing sense of independence. She is always trying something new and is very, very smart. Ava is quick to figure things out for herself. Ava has a very close relationship with Ms A and Ms A, but gets along well with the other teachers she knows. Ava is a very popular child, smart and talking, with all her peers. She is very well liked."

There are a couple of euphemisms in there, I know. "Quick to figure things out for herself" has been previously discussed here. "Gets along well with the teachers she knows" may be interpreted as "utterly disregards those teachers she does not know". And don't even get me started on "very very smart". Two words, my friends: Criminal Mastermind.

They also sent us home with a binder full of the milestones she hits, according to their curriculum blah blah blah. So all that time I spent guilting about how I stopped doing the baby book in February 09? Wasted time, that. They did it for me. Awesome.

Fashionista

There are some battles that I just don't have time for.

Today, Ava is wearing red socks with pink crocs, and the red socks SHOW. Whether it matches the rest of her outfit (it totally doesn't) just doesn't matter. Ava and I have come to an agreement on the process of getting dressed in the morning. I lay out her clothing options the night before--two pairs of pants, two tops. That is all. If we open the drawer in the morning when time is short, then we run the risk of, um, disagreeing about what actually gets worn.

Case in point: The Butterfly Shirt. If Ava sees the yellow shirt with the butterfly on it, then THAT IS WHAT SHE SHALL WEAR AND THERE IS NO FURTHER DISCUSSION. She will not wear a jacket over the butterfly shirt, making it no longer an option now that it's chilly outside. The butterfly shirt lives at the bottom of the drawer until spring (as butterflies should, I would think).

So we can negotiate tops and bottoms. That's cool. I can handle that. But the lady has very strong feelings about her footwear. She won't negotiate. She has lots of shoes, too (don't judge me...) so there's really no way to predict what will be acceptable. The shoes are in a bin in the closet, making them very easy to put away at the end of the day, but also making them very accessible in the mornings. And the socks are right there in the side pocket of the hanging thing (just go with me on this one) so I can grab a pair quickly.

This morning, we successfully got everyone dressed with very little discussion. This is a victory, because I really haven't mastered the necessary technique for wrestling an angry wombat into a pair of little jeans. I pulled out her very cool Snoopy New Balance Sneakers and she lost her freaking mind. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO" *stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp throw self down on floor* (seriously, I'm going to video the next time she does this and submit it to the Academy for their consideration in the Best Performance By a Toddler Who Does Not Want To Wear The Snoopy Shoes category).

So I pause, and envision where this fits in the Grand Scheme of Things.

"OK. Come pick your shoes and socks." And it's like I'm her Fairy Godmother and I just bibbidy-bobbidy-boo'd her a fancy pumpkin coach. She wipes her hair out of her eyes, takes a moment to compose herself, and with much gusto and aplomb, announces her selections as she makes them. "PINK SHOES YAY! WED TOCKS! YAY!"

Yay, indeed.

Attention! All Personnel! Incoming Helicopters!

Ava scares the hell out of me sometimes. She's just fearless and she barrels through her day without a care in the world while we guide her away from anything pointy or strangly or jagged-cliffy. We talk about how we walk the fine line between wanting to keep her safe from harm forever and realizing that if she doesn't roll off the couch she won't learn how not to roll off the couch.

Today, we were at the Very Awesome Park by our house. They have this amazing structure that has slides and ramps and rings and steps and places to jump and places where you can pretend you're a pirate (Arrrr.). It's plastic. It's a big red plastic Fun But Safe Place, that is securely anchored to this squishy rubber surface that would almost be fun to land on after falling from somewhere high up. As Rob and I were herding our little daredevil around the section that she's most likely to be able to navigate, I looked around at the other parents who were doing the same thing. Most of their kids were older than Ava (who is 21 months on Tuesday, OMG she's so big), but there they were, huffing and puffing through this extremely cushy playground. And I realized that I was perilously close to becoming a Helicopter Parent. NOOOOOOOOOOO!

Remember when we were kids? Remember the parks of the 1970s (I'm sofa king old...)? Lorenzi Park was so cool when I was a kid. We used to love to go there. And every single thing in that park was made of rebar and chains and hard plastic, and you know what you landed on when you jumped off the really high super awesome swing after you'd been going back and forth and back and forth and kicking furiously and you could just not go any higher and so you jumped off like it was an Olympic sport? You landed on gravel. Unless it was the end of the weekend and every other kid in Vegas had already done what you were just now getting to and all of the gravel was ground to dust from all of the landings, and sometimes you landed on dirt, and sometimes you landed on caliche and that's when you were done swinging for the day and you went home and bathed in Bactine.

So today at this modern newfangled fancy schmancy park, we circled around our kids like they were little teacups running around on tightropes stretched over canyons of broken glass. And all I could think of was that my kid will never learn how to do a death drop (yeah, you know what I'm talking about...) and that makes me sad. And relieved. But mostly sad.

Commentary at Yesterday's Daycare Pick-Up

Steve the Director: Hi, Kristie! Hey, we're really starting to notice that Ava has some really strong leadership tendencies emerging!

Me (in my head): Uh-oh...
Me (out loud): HAHAHAHAHAHA is that what you call it?

Steve the Director (in his head) (probably): WONDER WHERE SHE GETS IT, LADY.
Steve the Director (out loud): HAHAHAHAHAHA that IS what we call it! Today, before playtime, she made sure everybody had their shoes on and then she walked at the head of the line because she knew where they were going!

Me (in my head): Oh those poor kids...
Me (out loud): Well we're going to have to "cultivate" that in a "positive manner" now aren't we? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Steve the Director (in his head): OMG lady kids like yours either go on to invent Google or they become criminal masterminds with legions of minions at their command.
Steve the Director (out loud): We call that "channeling"! And yes, we will have to be sure to help her develop that skill!

I love Steve the Director. Really, he's awesome. He quacked a toy duck in Ava's face when she was about 5 months old, and she seriously did not even acknowledge him for a year after that. He has busted himself trying to get her to forgive him. She's just now getting back to where he exists in her world. Daycare providers do the work of the lord, that's for sure.

So, what happens when Ava skips a nap?

I'm flying solo this weekend. Rob's at his annual fantasy football draft/golf/manapalooza in San Diego, so I very purposefully sought out Meaningful Activities that are Fraught with Redeeming Social Value. Quite frankly, the idea of waking up to a completely unscheduled blank slate of a day with Ava scared the hell out of me. So we went here as I had it on good authority that it would be a great way to spend an hour or two.

It was awesome. SO perfect. Seriously, Ava scampered around the place like it was where she had spent the last twenty months waiting for us to take her there. They have a stage with a whole wall full of dress-up clothes. They have bubble tables and mazes big enough to walk through, and a mock classroom and grocery store and so many wonderful things for her to explore. Yeah, it's located at the corner of Crack and Ho, but I suppose that's part of the whole experience.

So we got there at 10, right when they opened, so it wasn't crowded. We stayed for an hour and 15 minutes, and that put us home right on track for lunch and nap. She ate a gigungous lunch, yawning and rubbing her eyes the whole time, and I figured that one hour of scampering and frolicking would lead to three hours of hardcore napping.

WRONG. WRONG. WRONG. WRONG. WRONG. WRONG.

For nearly an hour, she just chilled in her crib, talking to Elmo and Monkey and Bear and Other Bear, and then she was ready to not be in her crib. She fussed with increasing intensity, and I knew that the three hour nap was not in the cards. When I gave up and went in to assess, she was standing in the middle of her crib like Hannibal Lecter when Clarice first meets him. No sign of any distress or displeasure. Just. Standing. There.

OK fine, little girly-girl. No nap today. Let's go run some errands, as maybe a ride in the car will lull you to sleep.

Nope, nope nope nope. She chattered gaily to the guy at the cleaners and was the life of the party at Target. We got back to the house at 4:30, and that's when she started to get twitchy. Any kid of mine is going to have a short fuse, but man, today from about 5:00 on, she was a freaking land mine. Her eyes were so sleepy. She had big awful dark circles (yeah, she gets that from me, too...).

At 6:00, she went feral. She was so tired, she couldn't even walk straight, but when she'd fall over it made her giggle, so she'd do it on purpose (I'm debating whether to google that behavior to see if it's normal, but I'm afraid of what I might find).

Since I'm evidently new to this "mom" thing, I thought maybe a bath would help her relax. Oh dear God. I once tried to wash our cat when I was little. Jughead was angry on a good day, and evidently being bathed was a direct indictment of her self-cleaning abilities. Today, Jughead looked up from Cat Hell with one smug green eye, and mrowred with victorious condescension as she bowed to the new Empress of DON'T PUT ME IN THE GODDAMN BATHTUB.

At 6:45, dried, pajama'd and cuddled, Ava put herself to bed, an hour and fifteen minutes early. I truly believe that she figured she had put me through quite enough.

Testing The Fences

" That one... when she looks at you, you can tell she's working things out."
--Robert Muldoon in Jurassic Park, describing the alpha Raptor.

Ava is truly the light of my life. I don't even remember how we occupied ourselves before we had her to entertain us. Some nights, we just turn the TV off and watch her amuse herself. She's a riot. She's always buzzing from one corner of the room to another, chattering to whatever she may be holding, the pat-pat-pat of her little feet going back and forth across the tile. Sometimes, she just stops mid-stride, changes direction, and runs toward us with arms open for a great big hug. She is always on the verge of giggling, always wanting to see one more thing and tell one more story before the day has to end.

We spend a lot of time and effort figuring out how to show Ava more of the world. A couple of Sunday mornings ago, we went to a Very Cool Nursery that is like visiting a jungle right in the middle of town. There are macaws and huge tortoises and bunnies and an incredible koi pond. She loved it. This past weekend we went to Tule Springs, which any longtime Las Vegan will know is an amazing oasis with lakes and birds and all sorts of nature. She loved it. And so now we're working on where we're going to take her next. The weather's cooling off a little, so it will be easier to do outside stuff, and she's old enough now (almost 20 months OMG) to really be interested in new places.

Seriously, I love this kid so much I don't even have words. People ask me how my weekend was, and I tell them what Ava did (like when I sneezed and she looked at me and said "Bess oo mama" and my heart just MELTED). All plans are made around naptime, mealtime, and bedtime, and we've become Those People Who Leave Early or Cancel Outright because Something is Up with the Kid. I get it now. I totally understand how a narcissistic (look it up--December is my birthday and Narcissus is my flower) lollygagger like me can suddenly become a total pushover for someone who is only just starting to use her words.

And she knows she's got us. She KNOWS that she's not supposed to stand up on the couch, and she'll do it anyway, and not only will she stand up, but she'll freaking DANCE on the couch while singing "la la la la la ashes ashes all fall down" with a big Aren't-I-So-Damn-Cute? smile on her face. Right now, she's in her crib, 45 minutes after "bedtime". Bathtime was 7:30, and then after she's in jammies, one of us will sit in the rocker in her room with her firmly ensconced in a lap, and we're holding Monkey, Elmo, Bear, Other Bear, and Blanket, and sometimes there's a song or two, and then it's Bedtime. Except for the last couple of nights, she's wanted to put everyone in the crib and then pull them back out and go sit back in the chair and then put them all back in the crib and then pull them back out and go sit in the chair ad infinitum. So we said "no, baby, it's time for bed" and then the howling commenced until she realized that we weren't going to play and the indignation about being imprisoned in her crib turned to anger at being ignored and this horrible banging sound happened, which turned out to be Elmo's plastic eyes hitting the rails of the crib.

Damn, she's so funny.

A Very Important Day.

Today, Ava went peepee in the potty. In recognition of this auspicious occasion, we present a (completely unrelated) video, in which Ava wants to put on her Boogie Shoes.



Little girl likes her disco.

Where our responsibility lies

So last Sunday, my heart broke.

Pebbles was the sweetest dog in the world. She was perfect. She went outside when she needed to. She slept on the floor next to our bed. She was as contented as we were, but for one extremely significant exception: Pebbles did not like Ava.

On Saturday, they just kind of avoided each other. We chalked it up to new environment, unfamiliar surroundings, everybody getting used to everybody else, and so on. Sunday, Ava wanted to pet Pebbles, and Pebbles didn't like it. Pebbles bristled her fur, and curled up her lips into a scary snarl, and she growled a low warning. Her tail got still. We got Ava away as quickly as we could, and then we noticed that Pebbles was shaking. She was looking at us as if she knew what she had done was not OK, but she couldn't help it.

We can't help it either. We are responsible dog owners, sure, but we're responsible parents first. Some may say that we were foolish to bring a Rottweiler into a house with a child, as everybody knows that Rottweilers are aggressive and frequently vicious. I don't really buy into that--every dog has its stars and scapegoats. I've known sweeties of all breeds, and I'm not about to condemn a breed with a broad brush.

But this is my kid. I would reach into a bowl of spiders (shudder/cringe/gag) for Ava. And because of that, we could not keep Pebbles. The ladies at the Humane Society assured us that they understood, and that there was no judgment for our decision. Rob made it clear that the only issue was the one that was our dealbreaker, and now they will be able to give her to a family who is better suited for a lovely old girl like her. She's going to make someone a great pet and companion, I know. She's such a sweet girl, and she was so well taken care of, that I have faith that there is a happy ending in her future.

But my heart still broke.

Insanity Ensues

So, it's become apparent that we are nuts (it's also nuts that we are parents, but that's another posting...).

It began just like any other Saturday. Breakfast in jammies, assessment of the day to come, and so on. We'll be needing to wash the Honda; that can be our pre-nap outing. While we're out, Rob said, "why don't we go to Petco so Ava can visit the kitties and the fish?" They evidently did this last weekend while I was swilling martinis in San Francisco with the girls, and it was a big hit. All right then.

Petco has adoption events on Saturdays. Just FYI.

So we look at the kittens, and Ava gets all squealy because she loves kittens. And then we look at the fishies, and Ava gets all squealy because she loves fishies. And then we go over to look at the parakeets and cockawhatevertheyares, and Ava gets all squealy etc. etc. etc.

And then I go into the dog grooming area where the Humane Society has two pens set up, one with big dogs and one with small dogs. I don't look at the small dogs (really, why would I?). But I walk over to the big dogs, and I start reading the flyers they have posted on the gate. There's a bassett/beagle mix, which doesn't tempt me because that equals "howls and digs". And there's a shepherd mix, who is cute, but.... eh.

And then there's this other dog hanging back a bit. She's got a friendly face and a wagging tail. And she looks at me.

And I'm a sucker. And I'm in tears. Because I'm a sucker.

I read her story. "Pebbles is an 8-year-old Rottweiler. She is housetrained, and prefers to be inside. She sleeps on the floor next to the bed. She is good with other dogs, cats, and kids. " And I'm a mess. So I wander over to Rob and Ava (over by the fishies...) and Rob sees me and he KNOWS that Something has Happened.

"There's this dog...," I say. "And she looks so sweet. Go see her."

So now we have a dog. Pebbles, the 8-year-old Rottweiler, to be specific.


She's very happy to be with us. She has had a bath and brushing, and lots of water. And some worming tablets (there was some scooting). She's very calm. She's getting used to being here. She was surrendered by her previous family just a week ago--it's likely that they are one of the thousands in town who have lost their home to foreclosure and were forced to give her up when they moved into an apartment or other non-dog-friendly sort of place. She seems like a very good girl.

Ava loves her. Oh, Ava loves doggies so much, and now we have one in our home. I don't think she remembers much about Gracie (oh, poor Gracie...), but whenever she sees a dog, she wants to pet it and touch it and love it. So she's figuring out how to handle having a big (and rather fat) dog to pet and love at her whim. There have been a couple of wrinkly lip almost-but-not-quite-snarls that were the result of Too Much Love and Not Enough Personal Space. We're keeping a very VERY close eye on Pebbles and Ava both. Without being too Dog Whispery, we are already an established pack, and it's important that Pebbles understand her place in it. We think she will.

She's got some habits that we can already tell we're going to have to help her break. She's used to people food, we think, as she was very.very.very.very. interested in everything we've eaten and she hasn't touched her kibble. That explains the 20 extra pounds she's carrying. She's definitely housetrained, and she even knows to go to the door when It's Time To Go Outside. She knows her name, and that's kind of a bummer, because we're not really the sort of people who would name a dog "Pebbles" but whatever. She can be Pebbles if she wants to. She'll lay down and come when we tell her to. That's really all we need.

Right now, she's asleep in the middle of the living room, and she's very snorty about it. The absolute comfort that can be identified from the snore of a happy dog is something that is wonderful to behold. And really, I hated not having a dog. It's only been 6 months since we lost Gracie, and it's been so quiet (and clean, but mostly quiet) without a dog at all. I feel like we did a really good thing today. We'll give her a good home, and in return, she'll be a good dog.