My dog officially has an Indian name, Silver Foot. How you might ask, did he come about this name? Friday, my furry boy, was scratching his ear, and his toenail got caught tangled in his hair. He whimpered, and I noticed his predicament, and then I realized what truly awful parents we were when I noted the length of his toenails. My husband was going to be working from home that morning while we had new phone service and internet installed, and I casually said, "If you find time on your hands when they take the internet down, maybe you could cut his toenails?" I did not consider this an outlandish request, but I soon regretted ever mentioning it. About an hour and a half into my work day I get an accusatory phone call from my husband. "This is your fault!" If something goes wrong, it is always nice to have a fall guy, so I asked resignedly, "What exactly is my fault?" He cut the dog's toenail too short, and it was bleeding profusely. "It is squirting blood! What should I do?" Hmm, that was a tough one. "I don't know, bandage it?" Geesh! He kept recounting the sheer amount of blood the dog was losing, and I started to get concerned. I also wondered why he was asking me what to do when he knows I did not go to veterinary school. I suggested he call the vet, and ask advice from a professional. Meanwhile, I guess I should explain it was my fault, because I asked him to cut the toenails when I was not at home. As if my presence would have prevented him over clipping the nail. I wish my mere presence had magical powers like that.
Later, I received another call from him saying that he was going to "try" and leave the dog alone to go to work. I became more concerned. Usually my husband isn't nearly as squeamish about injuries and illnesses as I am, so the fact that he was freaking out about the dog raised some red flags. My calm was starting to go a little. "Do you think he shouldn't be left alone?" I asked. He hesitated and then assured me the dog "should" be fine. Good grief. All of these inferences of possible danger were making me crazy. I tried to remain focused for the last hour of work, and not think about finding a half dead dog on the floor when I arrived home. Now I was starting to blame myself for suggesting the clipping too.
To my relief, when I did get home, my little fella greeted me happily. Apparently, he was over the toenail incident, except for the giant silver duct tape bandage covering his paw and half his leg. He limped on it, no doubt because it was a strange feeling more than having actual pain. When I surveyed my kitchen floor, the room where the dog had been contained after his injury, I felt some pain myself, right in the butt. Seriously, the whole floor was smeared with dog blood. It appeared that SOMEONE had poorly attempted to clean it, or just spread it around even more, I am not sure which. It should be said here, that my husband should never attempt to kill anyone, because he would never leave the crime scene clean. Ugh. Just what I wanted to come home too. Not to mention, I was also in charge of removing the duct tape bandage and seeing if the bleeding had stopped. Yes, the duct tape bandage that had been attached to part of the hair on his furry little leg. Grrr. It was my turn to call him, exasperated. How was I supposed to get the duct tape off without pulling out his leg hair. Dogs shouldn't have smooth legs! My husband's helpful response was, "Just cut it off." Grumbling I was left to surgically remove the bandage. Thankfully, once I got it off, I noted the bleeding had mostly stopped, but being a dog, he wanted to lick his wound repeatedly. So I covered his foot with a paper towel, and more carefully (i.e did not adhere it to his fur) covered it with duct tape. After a day, Silver Foot, had adjusted to his bandaged paw and his new name, and he seemed no worse for wear.
What lesson did I learn from this? Several actually. The most important is, to have my dog's nails professionally trimmed from this point forward. Two, if my husband ever needed to make a living by cleaning, he would most certainly starve to death (actually I have known this for quite awhile, it was just reaffirmed). And three, when my husband calls to tell me blood is squirting everywhere...he is not exaggerating.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Fired Up Footwear Feels Forgotten!
I am a klutz. I like to pretend that I am not, but it manages to sneak out once every couple of days, if not more. In my old age, I have learned that it is all about how you play it off, so I always try to exude an "I meant to do that" attitude. High school was a time of perpetual anxiety, I was dreadfully shy and coupled with my general awkwardness in managing my limbs, I lived in mortal fear of looking stupid.
The other day, I tripped on my flip flops, and fell rather dramatically into the driver's seat of my van, this entrance startled my youngest child. "Why did you get in the car like that?" I debated how I should answer. Parenthood is a balancing act between letting your kids know you are human and often do embarrassing things too, and conveying unquestionable authority that indicates that because you are a parent you know everything and rarely do things you don't mean to do. Wishing I was a tad more graceful, I owned up to my flaw, "I just tripped on my flip flops. I know I looked goofy." She agreed whole-heartedly that I did, and then gave me sage wisdom from her seven year old lips, "Mom, you have to be careful with footwear. Flip flops are fairly feisty footwear." Not wanting to break the momentum of the F's, I said, "For real?" She answered, "You see, flip flops are feisty because they think it isn't fair that you forget them all year except for when it is hot outside. Because they are feisty, they try to make you look foolish." I felt like I was talking to Mr. Popper's secretary with all the alliteration going on in the conversation. It was all I could do not to laugh, but she was quite serious. "You need to be careful when you wear flip flops mom, because they WANT you to look silly. It is payback for leaving them in the closet most of the year." And there you have your fashion insight for the day. Flip flops are against us! Seems much more plausible than me just being clumsy.
The other day, I tripped on my flip flops, and fell rather dramatically into the driver's seat of my van, this entrance startled my youngest child. "Why did you get in the car like that?" I debated how I should answer. Parenthood is a balancing act between letting your kids know you are human and often do embarrassing things too, and conveying unquestionable authority that indicates that because you are a parent you know everything and rarely do things you don't mean to do. Wishing I was a tad more graceful, I owned up to my flaw, "I just tripped on my flip flops. I know I looked goofy." She agreed whole-heartedly that I did, and then gave me sage wisdom from her seven year old lips, "Mom, you have to be careful with footwear. Flip flops are fairly feisty footwear." Not wanting to break the momentum of the F's, I said, "For real?" She answered, "You see, flip flops are feisty because they think it isn't fair that you forget them all year except for when it is hot outside. Because they are feisty, they try to make you look foolish." I felt like I was talking to Mr. Popper's secretary with all the alliteration going on in the conversation. It was all I could do not to laugh, but she was quite serious. "You need to be careful when you wear flip flops mom, because they WANT you to look silly. It is payback for leaving them in the closet most of the year." And there you have your fashion insight for the day. Flip flops are against us! Seems much more plausible than me just being clumsy.
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
A Bit of Sunshine, In An Otherwise Cloudy World
There are a lot of things I could blog about right now, but to be honest, I just don't have the energy. So much happening in my life needs detailed explanations, and while some of you know it all, I can't blog bits and pieces for those that don't know the whole story. Instead, of rehashing the daily muck and stress that has been present since the loss of my maternal grandmother last October, I will focus on what I am thankful for and what has been a huge blessing.
I refer to 2011 as my "hell" year. One of the things that has gnawed at me day after day was my youngest's diagnosis with scoliosis. At age 6, it was a fairly progressed case, and though the doctor wasn't trying to scare us, or maybe he was, he indicated that surgery would be imminent if the condition worsened. I can't describe the feeling, the fear, when you learn that there is something wrong with your child. And the worst part in the beginning, was not knowing if there was some physical reason causing the scoliosis, or if it was simply idiopathic, unexplainable. After many tests, we learned it was indeed idiopathic, and we could begin the treatment phase. This included implementing a fairly substantial back brace that is hard plastic on the outside, and a foam like texture on the interior. We were instructed to use the brace every single night; the longer the better, with a goal of 10 to 12 hours. And so it began. There were tears of frustration, rebellion, anger, sadness, that all needed to be expressed by our child. The feeling that it was totally unfair to have to wear a back brace, what had she done to deserve it? Us, pointing out the positives, such as not having to wear the brace during the day, did little to help assuage the resentment of her situation. Some nights have been an absolute battle getting her in the brace, and some nights it is accepted with hopeless resignation. We have fallen into a pattern, where every night the brace is worn, except for approximately one night a month, or on special occasions/holidays.
Last week, was the day of reckoning. How were we doing? Was all of the agony of the brace paying off? It was the first x-ray that she had outside of the brace since beginning this whole process. A side note, her S curve in her spine was 31 and 36 degrees. We were told that even with bracing they could not promise improvement, though that was the hope since she had so much growing left to do. The goal of the brace was to stabilize the condition, to prevent it from worsening. I don't know what numbers I was hoping for walking into that appointment, but I felt on edge and unnerved. After the x-ray, we waited for the doctor's interpretation of what he saw, and he confirmed that the curves were now at 22 and 28 degrees. We were elated! Though the reward was not removal of the brace from our everyday lives, it was confirmation that we were on the right path, and that our efforts were not in vain. I am so incredibly thankful. The stress this caused in the short run, though at the time was extremely difficult, especially given other aspects of last year, was well worth it. I didn't understand at the time how any of it could be a "good thing", but being diagnosed when she was at such a young age, has probably helped alleviate many future, more serious back problems.
We are in this brace thing for the long haul. I don't see the doctors letting her go free, prior to her stopping growing, but even my 7 year old understands that her hard work and diligence is making a difference. She still grudgingly brings the brace to me every night, but there is less rebellion in it.
Even when the bits and pieces of my days are completely beyond my control and I think I am going to lose my mind, I can draw on this bit of good information again and again, because it hasn't ceased to make me smile yet. To God be the glory, great things He has done!
I refer to 2011 as my "hell" year. One of the things that has gnawed at me day after day was my youngest's diagnosis with scoliosis. At age 6, it was a fairly progressed case, and though the doctor wasn't trying to scare us, or maybe he was, he indicated that surgery would be imminent if the condition worsened. I can't describe the feeling, the fear, when you learn that there is something wrong with your child. And the worst part in the beginning, was not knowing if there was some physical reason causing the scoliosis, or if it was simply idiopathic, unexplainable. After many tests, we learned it was indeed idiopathic, and we could begin the treatment phase. This included implementing a fairly substantial back brace that is hard plastic on the outside, and a foam like texture on the interior. We were instructed to use the brace every single night; the longer the better, with a goal of 10 to 12 hours. And so it began. There were tears of frustration, rebellion, anger, sadness, that all needed to be expressed by our child. The feeling that it was totally unfair to have to wear a back brace, what had she done to deserve it? Us, pointing out the positives, such as not having to wear the brace during the day, did little to help assuage the resentment of her situation. Some nights have been an absolute battle getting her in the brace, and some nights it is accepted with hopeless resignation. We have fallen into a pattern, where every night the brace is worn, except for approximately one night a month, or on special occasions/holidays.
Last week, was the day of reckoning. How were we doing? Was all of the agony of the brace paying off? It was the first x-ray that she had outside of the brace since beginning this whole process. A side note, her S curve in her spine was 31 and 36 degrees. We were told that even with bracing they could not promise improvement, though that was the hope since she had so much growing left to do. The goal of the brace was to stabilize the condition, to prevent it from worsening. I don't know what numbers I was hoping for walking into that appointment, but I felt on edge and unnerved. After the x-ray, we waited for the doctor's interpretation of what he saw, and he confirmed that the curves were now at 22 and 28 degrees. We were elated! Though the reward was not removal of the brace from our everyday lives, it was confirmation that we were on the right path, and that our efforts were not in vain. I am so incredibly thankful. The stress this caused in the short run, though at the time was extremely difficult, especially given other aspects of last year, was well worth it. I didn't understand at the time how any of it could be a "good thing", but being diagnosed when she was at such a young age, has probably helped alleviate many future, more serious back problems.
We are in this brace thing for the long haul. I don't see the doctors letting her go free, prior to her stopping growing, but even my 7 year old understands that her hard work and diligence is making a difference. She still grudgingly brings the brace to me every night, but there is less rebellion in it.
Even when the bits and pieces of my days are completely beyond my control and I think I am going to lose my mind, I can draw on this bit of good information again and again, because it hasn't ceased to make me smile yet. To God be the glory, great things He has done!
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Holding Thy Tongue
In the words of Thumper, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all!" Hence I have canceled the remainder of my blog for tonight.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Remember When?
The other day my 10 year old asked me, "Mom, what was your email address before you married Daddy?" I paused, because I really had to think. When did I even get an email address? "Um, I think I had one in college and it was just my name and my college name." I was puzzled though, I couldn't remember exactly when email became the hype. My junior year of college? My senior year? She pressed on, "What about before college?" Now I had to fess up. "I didn't have one." Cue the dismay.
"What!?! How did you TALK to people?" At this point, I could have gotten into semantics, and told her that email is not talking, but that would have been a really annoying "mom thing" to do, so I ignored it and answered, "Either we called each other, or wrote letters...and put stamps on them, and mailed them at the post office. Gasp!" By the time I finished explaining communication in the dark ages of my childhood, I felt archaic. How did I live before email? Of course, there WAS email prior to me going to college (I'm not that ancient), but only nerds had email accounts way back then.
This conversation was prompted by the fact that the internet has been non-functioning all week at my work, and I have nearly gone crazy. Email is chiefly how I communicate with everyone these days, and I became painfully aware of that. Additionally, for some reason, even my phone wouldn't receive email messages while I was in the building for work, so I was cut off, four hours every day. Torture, right? For me, email is communication at its finest. Minimal effort is required in sending an email. I can rearrange wording, set tone, take breaks, trash a message that I don't like; however, a phone conversation requires me finding ways to occupy my children for the duration of the call, actively engaging by listening and participating in a conversation, thinking before I speak, and in general it requires a lot more time than email. If I ever call someone, it is a necessity. Either that, or the person is REALLY important to me. Conversely, the same can be said if I actually answer your phone call. Now you know my secrets, and whether you are special to me or not.
Today, I have been so busy that I have had very little opportunity to relish any internet time. As I cleaned my house, I pondered that it was no wonder Ma Ingalls was able to get so much done during the day. She didn't have the internet distracting her at every turn. Or the phone. Or extracurricular activities that required her to hitch the horse to the wagon and take her kids all around the countryside to cultivate skills and socialization. In light of this, I have decided that progress is not always a great thing, but I can't cast it completely aside, unfortunately. I have taken baby steps away from some things on the computer, Facebook being one of them, but I could probably trim back other things as well. As with most things in life, it is striking an appropriate balance. It is just difficult when you are dealing with something as enticing as the internet. The whole world is open to you; from online shopping to connecting with friends many miles away.
The internet connection at my job was restored late this afternoon, so tomorrow I will be reconnected. I wish I could say that it didn't matter either way, but it really does make so many tasks much less cumbersome when I can go online. These transitions of dependency happen so slowly that you don't realize that you have built so much of your life around them until they are gone. It is a bit of a sobering thought, though. We have more resources today, but overall we are less resourceful.
"What!?! How did you TALK to people?" At this point, I could have gotten into semantics, and told her that email is not talking, but that would have been a really annoying "mom thing" to do, so I ignored it and answered, "Either we called each other, or wrote letters...and put stamps on them, and mailed them at the post office. Gasp!" By the time I finished explaining communication in the dark ages of my childhood, I felt archaic. How did I live before email? Of course, there WAS email prior to me going to college (I'm not that ancient), but only nerds had email accounts way back then.
This conversation was prompted by the fact that the internet has been non-functioning all week at my work, and I have nearly gone crazy. Email is chiefly how I communicate with everyone these days, and I became painfully aware of that. Additionally, for some reason, even my phone wouldn't receive email messages while I was in the building for work, so I was cut off, four hours every day. Torture, right? For me, email is communication at its finest. Minimal effort is required in sending an email. I can rearrange wording, set tone, take breaks, trash a message that I don't like; however, a phone conversation requires me finding ways to occupy my children for the duration of the call, actively engaging by listening and participating in a conversation, thinking before I speak, and in general it requires a lot more time than email. If I ever call someone, it is a necessity. Either that, or the person is REALLY important to me. Conversely, the same can be said if I actually answer your phone call. Now you know my secrets, and whether you are special to me or not.
Today, I have been so busy that I have had very little opportunity to relish any internet time. As I cleaned my house, I pondered that it was no wonder Ma Ingalls was able to get so much done during the day. She didn't have the internet distracting her at every turn. Or the phone. Or extracurricular activities that required her to hitch the horse to the wagon and take her kids all around the countryside to cultivate skills and socialization. In light of this, I have decided that progress is not always a great thing, but I can't cast it completely aside, unfortunately. I have taken baby steps away from some things on the computer, Facebook being one of them, but I could probably trim back other things as well. As with most things in life, it is striking an appropriate balance. It is just difficult when you are dealing with something as enticing as the internet. The whole world is open to you; from online shopping to connecting with friends many miles away.
The internet connection at my job was restored late this afternoon, so tomorrow I will be reconnected. I wish I could say that it didn't matter either way, but it really does make so many tasks much less cumbersome when I can go online. These transitions of dependency happen so slowly that you don't realize that you have built so much of your life around them until they are gone. It is a bit of a sobering thought, though. We have more resources today, but overall we are less resourceful.
Monday, April 2, 2012
In the Dog House
If we had a dog house, my dog would SO be in it tonight. Most days, he is the only bit of sanity I have in my life. He demands little and gives much. He calms me with his sympathetic stares, and allowing me to pet his soft head. I joke that he is a "furry human", because he just seems above the others of his species...until today. Today, he was a just a dog. A very mindless, playful, exuberant, sort of dumb dog.
I was getting ready to leave for work this morning, and I noticed as I passed the back door, that he was leaping around in the backyard. For those of you that do not own a labradoodle, this is code for I am very happy and excited. It is a leap and a pounce, repeated as many times as necessary to convey enthusiasm. I didn't think a whole lot about it, except, "Aw isn't he cute?" He never did come to the door to come inside of his own volition, and I had to call him, several times. I saw something in his mouth, gray, but from the distance I assumed it was a stick. I could tell in that doggy brain of his that he was debating whether or not I meant business. Finally he dropped his treasure, and ran full speed for the door. Clearly, he thought he was going to get to for a "car car ride". That sequence of words should never be uttered in his presence unless you really mean to take him out cruising. He was disappointed that I left him behind, it was all over his face, and I felt badly for him. Until later today....
When I arrived home from work, I let him outside again. Several minutes passed, and I realized he wasn't begging to be let back inside. This is unusual, because he wants to soak in as much human time as possible after being left to his own devices for several hours. I went to the door to check on him, and I noticed him in that same exact spot in the yard that he had been this morning. He was nudging something with his nose. Time to investigate. I had a knowing feeling, even before I arrived, that I was going to encounter something disturbing. Much to my horror, I spot him sitting next to a dead baby bunny. I freaked out. He was a bunny killer, and so close to Easter too! I marched him into the house and closed him in the back bathroom, until I determined how to sanitize him properly.
The "wild" animal had been in his mouth! A mouth that licks most members of this family! Argh! He was in solitary confinement most of the afternoon as I pondered my sanitizing options. I finally got a rag, doused it generously with Listerine, and began scrubbing his teeth, tongue, lips, and facial hair. He was not a fan, even though it was the minty Listerine. I decided that probably wasn't sufficient, so I pulled out his razor, shaved his "beard" completely off, and a good portion of his "mustache"....yes, he looks a wee bit homely now. For extra good measure, I cleaned his paws with rubbing alcohol. I felt fairly satisfied with my efforts, that is until my husband said, "Do you realize what he probably gets into that we don't know about? You just happened to catch him this time." These words did not bring any comfort to my Howard Hughes-like OCD whatsoever.
I realize he didn't mean to harm the bunny. He was simply playing, and wondering why his playmate didn't move the second time around. Poor germy bunny. My immediate thought was, "he should have known better!", but honestly, my human children make poor choices almost daily, and trust me, they DO know better. But I still felt betrayed. He is my ally in this house, when the rest of my family is seemingly working against me, and today he failed.
He knows he isn't back in his mommy's good graces. He keeps casting forlorn glances my direction, but I am just not in the mood to overlook his inferior doggy mentality today. Perhaps tomorrow I will be ready to forgive my furry boy, but tonight he is in the dog house, aka, on the bedroom FLOOR and not on the bed.
I was getting ready to leave for work this morning, and I noticed as I passed the back door, that he was leaping around in the backyard. For those of you that do not own a labradoodle, this is code for I am very happy and excited. It is a leap and a pounce, repeated as many times as necessary to convey enthusiasm. I didn't think a whole lot about it, except, "Aw isn't he cute?" He never did come to the door to come inside of his own volition, and I had to call him, several times. I saw something in his mouth, gray, but from the distance I assumed it was a stick. I could tell in that doggy brain of his that he was debating whether or not I meant business. Finally he dropped his treasure, and ran full speed for the door. Clearly, he thought he was going to get to for a "car car ride". That sequence of words should never be uttered in his presence unless you really mean to take him out cruising. He was disappointed that I left him behind, it was all over his face, and I felt badly for him. Until later today....
When I arrived home from work, I let him outside again. Several minutes passed, and I realized he wasn't begging to be let back inside. This is unusual, because he wants to soak in as much human time as possible after being left to his own devices for several hours. I went to the door to check on him, and I noticed him in that same exact spot in the yard that he had been this morning. He was nudging something with his nose. Time to investigate. I had a knowing feeling, even before I arrived, that I was going to encounter something disturbing. Much to my horror, I spot him sitting next to a dead baby bunny. I freaked out. He was a bunny killer, and so close to Easter too! I marched him into the house and closed him in the back bathroom, until I determined how to sanitize him properly.
The "wild" animal had been in his mouth! A mouth that licks most members of this family! Argh! He was in solitary confinement most of the afternoon as I pondered my sanitizing options. I finally got a rag, doused it generously with Listerine, and began scrubbing his teeth, tongue, lips, and facial hair. He was not a fan, even though it was the minty Listerine. I decided that probably wasn't sufficient, so I pulled out his razor, shaved his "beard" completely off, and a good portion of his "mustache"....yes, he looks a wee bit homely now. For extra good measure, I cleaned his paws with rubbing alcohol. I felt fairly satisfied with my efforts, that is until my husband said, "Do you realize what he probably gets into that we don't know about? You just happened to catch him this time." These words did not bring any comfort to my Howard Hughes-like OCD whatsoever.
I realize he didn't mean to harm the bunny. He was simply playing, and wondering why his playmate didn't move the second time around. Poor germy bunny. My immediate thought was, "he should have known better!", but honestly, my human children make poor choices almost daily, and trust me, they DO know better. But I still felt betrayed. He is my ally in this house, when the rest of my family is seemingly working against me, and today he failed.
He knows he isn't back in his mommy's good graces. He keeps casting forlorn glances my direction, but I am just not in the mood to overlook his inferior doggy mentality today. Perhaps tomorrow I will be ready to forgive my furry boy, but tonight he is in the dog house, aka, on the bedroom FLOOR and not on the bed.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
F-u-u-u-d-g-e!
If you have ever seen The Christmas Story, you understand the title of this blog. On Tuesday, my husband and I had a flat tire on my van. I am not pointing fingers when I say that it was my husband's fault, okay I am, but only because I am glad it wasn't my fault. In his defense, I believe the tire was compromised in some way, shape, or form, in the preceding months, because we routinely had to fill that tire with air. Anyway, as we were backing out of our parking space, he bumped the curb. Actually it was a fairly minor bump, the back end of the van didn't raise off the ground as it tried to go over the curb, it didn't jolt everyone in the van, in fact if it weren't for the alarming hissing noise, we probably wouldn't have even stopped. I opened my door, looked out, and confirmed our fears. It was as flat as a pancake. My husband proceeded to inspect the damage, and to prepare changing the flat. It took awhile to actually get the spare out of the floor of the van and the jack out as well. Somewhere in his efforts to extricate the needed equipment, I suggested we just call AAA. I mean that is why we have them, right? My suggestion was ignored, and I did not press the issue. Keeping our children out of his way was my prime goal at this point, because right now my husband was still calm, but he wore a face that suggested that he was a volcano that could erupt at any moment. One person drove by and offered assistance, and my manly husband waved him on, "No thanks. I've got this."
The jack, was something akin to a ridiculous wind-up toy. For a half an hour, I watched him crank the jack, and watch the car go up a centimeter every 20 cranks. Sigh. I offered to hold the nuts for the tire, and he passed them my way, then I pretended to drop them, exclaiming the drawn out "Fudge" from The Christmas Story, but he was not amused. Wisely, I discontinued any further commentary. 45 minutes later our spare was on, and we all reassembled into our proper seats in the van to head home. He turns the key, but the car won't start. I won't point any fingers HERE, when I say that too was my husband's fault for leaving the lights on during the tire change, but again I am, because I was SO glad it had nothing to do with me. At this moment little bits of bubbling lava were starting to run down the side of the volcano. I texted my cousin that lived a quarter mile away, and we were rescued with a fairly quick jumpstart.
Driving home, my husband says, "I guess I am kind of glad that happened to me, because that would have been a pain if you had to change the tire and then get a jumpstart." I answered, "Oh I wouldn't have changed it, I would have called AAA, and then they would have already been there to jumpstart my car." Unlike my husband, I don't have the same need to prove myself when it comes to car stuff. Then he admitted, I am also glad it was me, because I wouldn't have been nearly as nice about it if you had caused the flat." This I can verify as the full truth, and until he uttered the words himself, I wasn't about to concede that the same thought had crossed my mind. In fact, I caused a flat last summer, on a very busy dance recital day, one of the worst possible times to do so given the schedule we had to keep, and he acted as though I sat down on the ground and sliced the tire with a knife just to inconvenience HIM. We both laughed acknowledging the truth of his words, and he thanked me for being a good sport. When he caused the flat tire, I had a brief of moment flash through my mind, wondering what attitude I should have regarding our mess. I am glad I chose "easygoing", which isn't always my first reaction.
$722 later I have four new tires. That new job I have, well, I was planning on designating that money for more impractical purposes, but it would appear that my plans have been thwarted. Actually I am quite thankful I have a way to pay for the tires that doesn't mean leaving it on our credit card indefinitely. C'est la vie.
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