Category: Family

Florence’s So-Called Life Season 1, Ep 7

In which Florence explains her favorite things and goes on an adventure.

(read in the voice of Florence, which sounds uncannily like a 14-year-old Claire Danes)

Okay, I’m like waaay to old to believe in Santa. I gave that up when I was, what, 10 weeks old? Something like that. I had my first birthday last week though, and I laughed at the memory of myself last year, totally believing in Santa. I was so…young. Sigh.

But I still love Christmas. And there’s this song, it’s not really a Christmas song (according to Lewis and Bekah), but people still play it at Christmas time, so doesn’t that like, make it a Christmas song? I don’t know. Anyway, it’s about some woman singing about her “Favorite Things.” Wiley says that we should boycott it because the woman talks about dogs biting, and she should be singing about how petting dogs is one of her favorite things.

I mean, I agree…but still…I like the song.

So in honor of Christmas, I decided to think about my favorite things. Yeah, so there are two things I love in this world: people hands and food.

Note: corn tortillas are not food…I hate corn tortillas. Wiley likes them, and he always swipes mine because I don’t eat it fast enough. But that is neither here nor there.

Wiley waiting to snatch my corn tortilla, which I am sniffing, because really, that does not smell like food.
Wiley waiting to snatch my corn tortilla, which I am sniffing, because really, that does not smell like food.

People hands. The pet me, they taste salty when I lick them, and they deliver food (and then they taste like food when I lick them).

Food….I. LOVE. FOOD. (except corn tortillas)

I love peanut butter. So much.
I love peanut butter. So much. And that hand holding the peanut butter jar…it will now taste like peanut butter. I will lick it when she tries to pet me.
A reminder to everyone just how much I have always loved food.
A reminder to everyone just how much I have always loved food.

And you know where those two things come together? Napkins. People hands and food, in one convenient, shreadable, delicious rectangle of grease, sauce, and seasoning.

Plastic spoons. Next best thing.
Plastic spoons: Next best thing to napkins.

So I’ve been really bummed at Bekah and Lewis’s newfound vigilance about leaving paper towels, tissues, and napkins lying around. All I want for Christmas is a well-used napkin, preferably one that was used at a bbq.

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Why no paper goods???

So the other day, Bekah put the leash on me. I love the leash. It’s the first step in all our best adventures. And she DIDN’T put Wiley’s on. So I knew it was going to be a special walk and NOT a trip to the vet (which is always more fun on the way and not as fun in reality). I get to go on special walks. I don’t want to, like, rub it in or anything. I mean, I don’t want to make Wiley sad…but…I really love special walks. Bekah and Lewis both pet me the whole time. Even though they are sort of grouchy about it and they make me sit more than we actually walk…still…I just love being special.

I got really excited while Bekah was putting on her shoes. Why didn’t she do that before she put my leash on? She knows I can’t be still once the leash is on.

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So we headed off toward the river. That’s what we do on our special walks. We go to the river and I get to look at things (that are NOT for chasing), and see people (who are NOT for greeting), and smell plants (that are NOT for eating or pooping on).

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But this time the air was different. There were shiny things and unfamiliar green, needly, plants everywhere. These are not native to my back yard. And Bekah and Lewis have none of this twinkly, greeny Christmas stuff in the house. Bekah keeps talking about it, but it never appears.

Anyway…so we’re walking…and then, at the top of the river, where we usually turn around…we just didn’t. We walked up into the tall buildings and suddenly we were surrounded by…PEOPLE HANDS and FOOD!

Everywhere. It was, like, my Christmas Wonderland. The Pearl Farmer’s Market. Nothing but people hands and food.

Then Bekah and Lewis got two Chinese Chili Dogs. If you imagine all that sounds delicious to a dog, that’s what it is. That’s why it’s called a dog. I wanted it so bad. I just…couldn’t…contain…myself. So Lewis had to tie me to his chair. I still did my best to express my desire for food and dislike of being excluded…I mean…isn’t this special walk for…me?

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Oh my gosh. Lewis’s hands are going to taste SO GOOD after this.

I thought Bekah was going to give me some of her Chinese Chili Dog…but then I realized that she’d just poured some water in the tray to “quench my thirst.” I DON’T WANT WATER! I thought. So I tipped it over and tried to lick the remnants of sweet pulled pork and Chinese spices off of the dish. Not the same.

Then we left. And there was no special food for me! My Christmas Wonderland was not so magical…until I saw it. Fluttering against a landscape rock…a white morsel in the wind…a napkin.

It was the best napkin in the world. Eventually Lewis pried it out of my mouth, but not before I got a Christmas size helping of my two favorite tastes: people hands and food.

Back to the boring old water bowl, and dreaming of the wonderful farmer's market napkin.
Back to the boring old water bowl, and dreaming of the wonderful farmer’s market napkin.

The grapefruit harvest that ended with me cutting down a tree

Grapefruit harvest has become one of my favorite things about living in the Little House on the Eastside. We have many fruit trees, but the only one, thus far to produce to it’s full potential in both taste and quantity is the faithful grapefruit tree.

The meyer lemon tree is a phoenix, which is finally producing after we thought it died in 2011. Verdict is still out on the quality. The pear tree produces plenty of fruit, edible only by Florence, who also eats plastic, wood, and probably metal. The pomegranate bush produced exactly three of the saddest fruits I have ever seen. Our fig tree is really only a fig tree in theory. The loquat tree produces plenty, but who needs that many loquats? The tangerine tree, usually pretty reliable, if extremely tart, is taking the year off, and our pecan trees barely survived the drought, so we’re not asking much.

Last year, we harvested in early December  in running shorts, sweaty and itchy as we climbed ladders and picked through the highest branches.

Harvest 2012. Note the shrubby anacua in the lower left.
Harvest 2012. Note the shrubby anacua in the lower left.

This year, the harvest came early, as I looked at the forecast and saw a freeze approaching. So I bundled up and headed to the orchard to see what I could salvage. It was 2 hours before we needed to leave for church, which is when all worthwhile projects are hatched.

Here’s how it all went.

2:50 pm: Upon inspection, Bekah determines that the meyer lemons were in fact, not ripe. Ripe meyer lemons are bright orange, and these are still a little yellow. However, while examining the lemons she did find this amazing creature.

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3:05 After filling 4 grocery bags from just the low-hanging grapefruit, Bekah goes inside and fetches the little step-ladder to get the next level. Lewis is nowhere to be found, and thus the plan goes forward half-baked and without precaution.

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3:10 A shrubby anacua and several hackberry saplings present an obstacle. [note: I’m not opposed to “trash trees” the way that some people are. True they will take over your back yard as aggressively as bamboo, and they are nearly impossible to kill…but they are native, the birds love them, and they aren’t ugly…well, okay, they aren’t too ugly.]

The shrubby anacua, seen in the photo from last year, was particularly obnoxious in dominating the space beneath and around 3 branches full of plump grapefruit. It had to go.

3:15– Bekah enters the house where Lewis is now working.

“Do we have a saw?”

“I’m sure we do…why?” (Lewis tries to keep the panic from showing on his face)

“I need to get rid of a hackberry tree.”

Bekah goes to the laundry room and finds the handsaw, instantly thankful for the Great Organizing Binge of 2012. Lewis gives some instruction on how to use the handsaw, which Bekah pretends to understand before she returns to the orchard and begins sawing down little hackberry saplings scattered beneath the grapefruit tree.

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3:29: It becomes clear that the handsaw is not going to be enough to bring down the shrubby anacua in any timely fashion. Or maybe ever. Don’t let “shrubby” fool you. It’s a fairly mature tree, it just has leaves all the way to the ground, because it came of age during a drought. Don’t feel sorry for it though. It was a bully shrub tree.

3:30: Bekah goes to the garage to find the ax. The ax came with the house, along with several other ancient tools. It’s approximately 1.5 million years old, and the origin of the old phrase, “fly off the handle.”

3:40: Tired from swinging the ax, Bekah alternates between handsawing the tiny hackberry trees all over the yard out of spite, and returning to the shrub, which has proven harder to kill than she’d anticipated. That’s the thing about South Texas natives (plants, animals, and humans), they are built to survive forces far more lethal than a pregnant woman with a dull, million-year-old hand tool that falls apart every few minutes.

The tiny hackberry saplings prove more rewarding.

3:50: Bekah marches back in the house, sticks and leaves in her hair. Lewis, no longer masking his concern, silently braces himself for news of disaster, but wisely resists the urge to intervene.

“Isn’t brush collection day coming soon?” she asks.

“Yyyeesss….” Lewis says.

“Oh good.”

Lewis is tempted to check on the situation, but knows that not knowing is sometimes the better option.

Florence follows Bekah back outside and proceeds to wretch throughout the remainder of the project. Who knows what she ate.

Bekah returns to the ax, only to realize that the shrub is so intertwined with its little sister shrub that the only way to fell the first one is to go for both simultaneously. Another brilliant survival move by the anacua, and nascent illustration on the importance of community…or the bond of marriage…or something.

3:55– Bekah puts the head of the ax back on the handle for the final time, checks to make sure that Florence is not within range should it go flying,  and keeps chopping.

4:00: Bekah finally topples both anacuas, does a celebratory dance, and realizes that she cannot lift the fallen shrub trees over the antique washing machine, that is for some reason a fixture in the back yard. She will need to do this in order to drag it to the sidewalk for brush collection day.

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4:01: Bekah goes inside, asks Lewis for help. Lewis looks openly relieved to be invited to supervise this unplanned project…and he didn’t even know about the ax.

4:02: Lewis is left outside to finish the job of hauling and chopping the shrub trees into manageable pieces, because, as Bekah says, “The baby and I are tired now. We’re going inside.”

4:05: Bekah remembers that the entire point of cutting down the anacua and hackberries was to get to some of the best grapefruit. However, she’s already started a hot shower and peeled off her wet outer layers, and the grapefruit will have to wait until tomorrow.

Happy Birthday, Lewis!

We were watching “Lars and the Real Girl” a few weeks ago, and there’s a scene in which Lars asks his brother what it means to be a “man.” His brother answers that being faithful and taking care of the people you love is what makes a man (in more appropriately manly words).

It’s not just age.

Today,  33 years ago, the world got a little bit better, because Lewis Maverick McNeel was born. I wasn’t around to notice, but I’m sure that if I had been, I would have woken up a little happier without even knowing why. I think I’d have felt it.

I’ve gotten to celebrate the last three of those with this guy.

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Every year I feel like there’s not really a gift to sum up how happy I am that he’s in the world.

His birthdays have included surprise parties, flamenco dancers, five course meals…still, nothing really communicates just how happy I am that he was born.iPhone upload May 23 2013 067

 

But this one is different. This time, I am absolutely positive that the events of his birthday will show Lewis how and why I am so very thankful for him…

Today is so full of semi-birthday semi-fun that the only time he could go to CrossFit was at 6:30 am.

While he was gone (and I was just waking up), sensing the occasion, Florence decided to make a present on the floor. I could not leave the bedroom without gagging so hard my eyes watered, and so the present was there waiting when he got home. (Though, I will say that when I fled the stench, I fled to Bakery Lorraine to get him some breakfast).

The shower curtain got so excited that it fell down.

“Birthday lunch” was planned exactly 15 minutes in advance.

And his birthday night will begin with an elementary school choir concert.

Lewis diligently went to work out at 6:30 am. He came home and cleaned up the poop. He doesn’t know about the shower curtain yet…but usually when it falls down, he just gets out the ladder and hangs it right back up. He let me change the time of his impromptu lunch 2 different times, without letting on if it threw of his schedule. And he’s happily dressed to impress for the elementary choir event. Which he’s going to for our growing-up flower girl, whom he’s come to love like part of the family.

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So today, more than any other birthday, I can look at everything that’s happened and say, “This, this, Lewis McNeel, is why your birthday deserves to be celebrated. You are patient, kind, dutiful, loving, strong, and capable. And you have a somewhat compromised sense of smell, which is really helpful when the house smells of dog sh**.”

You, Lewis McNeel, are a man, and we, your whole little family, are very very thankful for each of your 33 years.

 

 

Florence’s So-Called Life: Season 1, ep 6

In which Florence loses control of her destructive behavior.

(read in the voice of Florence, which sounds uncannily like a 14-year-old Claire Danes)

Sometimes…I just…destroy things.

I thought I had it under control. Chew on some socks or underwear occasionally…and I’ve been working my way through the rug for months. And there was the blue pen incident (which was blown way out of proportion by the humans). But it wasn’t, like, a daily compulsion or anything.

But then, like…a switch flipped? I dunno. I just really…need…to destroy things.

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And it used to just be stuff left on the floor or dangling off of chairs.

But now…it’s just all right there…on the table…on Bekah’s desk…it’s just there. Calling me to tear it to shreds.

There’s the sod in the back yard…

Credit cards…

Sunglasses,,,

Post-it notes, but only the ones with phone numbers and notes on them from Bekah’s office…

And whatever Lewis was working on all night at the dining room table…

And the weird thing is, even when they discipline me, and shove it in my nose. I just don’t even care. My tail wags and I sort of just like the attention.

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Bekah and Lewis were convinced that I just needed better toys.

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But something happens at 6:30 in the morning…when I’ve been crying for 30 minutes because they think they can just feed me and let me out to pee and then go back to bed…and I get this rage. I don’t want their stupid toys. I don’t want to be placated. I want to be PLAYED WITH. And then I black out. When I come to, there’s plastic and paper everywhere…

I think I need to go to rehab.

Pregnant Lady or Hobbit? [Second Breakfast]

I’m pregnant. I think.

I wake up ravenous.Yesterday morning I had to be out the door by 6:30 am. So I grabbed a chewy granola bar to take the edge off, telling myself I’d have a tiny, nutritious snack when I got back home around 8 am. Okay, tiny or nutritious. You can’t have it all.

I came home, considered my options, and went for two hard-boiled eggs. I don’t like hard boiled yolk, so it would be just the whites. What is that, like 60 calories total?

Juuuust as I dropped the eggs into the boiling water, I realized that at my current hunger register, two egg whites would hold me over for approximately 45 seconds.

But two poached eggs…now that sounded more amenable my hormone-addled brain.

Snatch eggs from boiling water (with fingers). Add vinegar and salt to boiling water (don’t measure, just pour). Crack eggs into cup and lower into the water, and voila! Poached eggs.

But poached eggs by themselves? How will I sop up the yolk? (Never mind that the yolk was not entirely runny, thanks to the eggs’ brief dip into boiling water back when they were to be hardboiled)

Better add toast…umm, er, make it two pieces, one for each egg.

Mmm…doesn’t the smell of toast always make you want tomatoes? (Probably not…unless you are very British or pregnant with a constant craving for tomatoes.)

Tomatoes, poached egg, and toast. What’s missing? Of course, Parmesan! Finely grated Parmesan – the strangest impulse buy I’ve ever made at Central Market. Yep, sprinkle that on top.

Now that is what I call…SECOND BREAKFAST!

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As I get rounder, I have to wonder…am I going to have a baby? Or is Gandalf going to show up at my door on March 16 and send me off to Mordor?

Pumpkin Carving

Usually I’m a Cinderella/fairytale/rascal pumpkin kind of girl. I like the magical harvest look more than the Halloween look.

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But this year, thanks to my cousins,  Lewis and I made a valiant attempt at having a jack-o-lantern on our porch. Jack-o-lantern may be a deceptive term. Why would we do something traditional, when we can have “that pumpkin.”

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I love my cousins. I love having people in my family with whom I can share faith, family lore, and traditions. Like pumpkin carving. If you could look back at the Stolhandske/Dahlberg family home videos you would year after year of intense little boys laying into the piñatas with perfect batting stances and determined grimaces.

When I hear that we’re having a “pumpkin carving contest,” that’s the image that pops up in my mind. A colorful paper-mache star swinging wildly while parents clear the other kids from the vacinity.

Fortunately my cousins married the right women.

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After a lovely evening of backstrap, beer, and strategy…

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There was cleverness to go around, and Lewis’s brilliant move of using a drill to create an avant garde design, a la West Elm, was a hit. It was not however, structurally sound, and we may have done too thorough a job, scraping out the innards.

This picture does not do justice to Lennox (who later had a tiny pumpkin named Leroy in his mouth) or Jack, whose nose was the pumpkin stem.
This picture does not do justice to Lennox, who later had a tiny pumpkin named Leroy in his mouth; or Jack, whose nose was the pumpkin stem.

The pumpkin lived on our porch for exactly 12 days, slowly deteriorating into something truly ghoulish. So Happy Halloween, jack-o-lantern. Thanks for hanging in there. I’ll put you out of your misery tomorrow.

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Something New and Good: Baby

So…three years of marriage, and still I have not experienced the bloodbath I’d been afraid of before I got married. Lewis and I have yet to go to bed angry. I’ve never wished he would just go away. I’m not bragging. I’m the girl who had a panic attack two weeks before her wedding because she was afraid that marriage was going to be a 50+ year battle with untold casualties. No bragging rights here.

I’m saying that marriage has been wonderful beyond my expectations.

But now…a baby on the way. And the voices are back, telling me life is about to get really, really hard. So many were these voices that I put off getting pregnant for as long as I could without pushing poor Lewis over the edge. We are happy. We have balance…why upset it? Why invite what, according to a lot of people I know, is the most emotionally draining and difficult thing they have ever done?

Because it’s time to believe that God makes all things new.

People love to tell you how you’re going to mess up your kids, just like your parents messed you up. They like to tell you how you bring all of your baggage into parenting. They want it to be freeing, to tell you that you don’t have to be perfect, because nobody is perfect. They want it to remind you that you need grace as a parent.

I get that, and I appreciate it.

And it’s true that we’re born sinners. Sure thing.  Got it. My children will not be perfect. I will not be perfect.

BUT, here’s the deal: New life. What could be more of a picture of God’s grace that is new every morning than an actual. NEW. LIFE.

This baby will not come out cynical and jaded. She will not have years of baggage yet. She will be fresh and new, and her experience of the world, the church, and family will be her very own.

This baby, to me, is a celebration of hope. When I feel like so much has been ruined or twisted or corrupted, an entire new person will exist in the world who knows nothing of that. And maybe she will experience her own pains, but she will also have her own joys and see God’s faithfulness to her in her own life.

I’m sure that when she’s two and rolling on the floor screaming…or thirteen and rolling on the floor screaming, I will be glad for the wisdom that prepared me for her humanity. I’m sure I will be glad that someone warned me that I can’t be the perfect parent. Lewis and I are both first children, and we’re having our first child. We will win the award for most neurotic house on the block.

BUT, that is not what sets me free. That is not what makes me feel new and good. What gives me hope is that God makes all things new. And there is something new happening here (between my abs and my bladder) and it has the potential to be good. Not the kind of good that doesn’t need Jesus, but the kind of good that brings him glory. This little girl has her own story, and Jesus loves her. And I have every reason to believe that her difficult toddler/teenage years are nothing in comparison to the person God is already making her to be.

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“Sometimes It’s Best to Lie”: Poetry for the Young Realist

Dear World,

Please please please don’t take this little poem too seriously…I really really really don’t intend to start a conversation on how it’s never best to lie, how you would tell the truth even if it hurt someone in the short term, the exact nature of a lie, etc. It’s just some late night musings on the times when you realize that, “yes, the whole polite world expects me NOT to say exactly what I’m thinking at this moment.”

Of course, if you are now wondering if you are the extended family, neighbor, or friend who was lied to, the answer is most certainly, “of course not.”

Sincerely,

Bekah

Sometimes It’s Best to Lie

I.

You’ve always learned to tell the truth,

And surly you must try.

But sometimes to be kind or couth

You have to tell a lie.

Don’t ever lie to save your skin.

Don’t lie to hurt another.

A lie is not the way to win,

It’s a way to love your brother.

II.

When your sibling’s choice couture

Be it dress or tie

Makes them look like furniture

Sometimes it’s best to lie,

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III.

When dear granny’s getting old

And she forgets your size

Her gifts may smell of cats and mold.

You’ll have to tell some lies.

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IV.

When your host has burnt the beef

Or undercooked the pie

There’s no need to cause him grief.

Just tell a gracious lie.

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V.

When your buddy’s lost a game

You know how hard he tried

The brutal truth would cause him shame

You’ll be glad you lied.

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VI.

When great-auntie buys you junk

That makes you wonder, “Why???”

Don’t act like an ungrateful punk

Just suck it up and lie.

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VII.

When sharing cold hard facts of life

It’s easy to be jaded.

But when your thoughts could stir up strife

They may be better shaded.

Though few would outright tell you this,

They would say be polite

But manners, tact, and thoughtfulness

Are knowing when to lie.

Florence’s So-Called Life : Season 1, ep 5

In which Florence makes a bold move in body art.

(read in the voice of Florence, which sounds uncannily like a 14-year-old Claire Danes)

My people are sort of boring. They have NO piercings. NO tattoos. They never even change their hair.

Brown hair. Yawn.
Brown hair. Yawn.

They call it being “natural,” but I’m like, “what is natural anyway?” I mean, is natural just about having the same skin and hair you were born with? Delilah next door says that’s stupid because our skin and hair change all time. So what’s the big deal about changing it a little?

There’s this chow down the street. He’s totally cool, and a little scary. And he has this amazing blue tongue. Wiley says it’s the blue tongue that make people think he’s cool. (Our people say it’s because he’s so fluffy and lazy).

On Friday mornings, Lewis has a bunch of guys over for Bible Study. Wiley and I are to be neither seen nor heard. Milford Dogs.

This is me being neither seen nor heard.
This is me being neither seen nor heard.

I hate being away from the people, with all those hands available for petting.

Me when I'm not being pet.
Me when I’m not being pet.

So we were locked in the utility room with Lewis’s drafting table and all the cleaning supplies. Cleaning supplies are of no interest to me. But on the drafting table…there was a pen…a Pilot Precise V7 Rollerball Pen, to be exact …I could see the ink inside swirling around…and it was blue.

Wiley casually mentioned that it looked just like the blue chow’s tongue. He said that he had a delicate constitution or he’d eat the thing himself to turn his tongue blue.

Well, he does have a delicate constitution…but I don’t. It was a little messy, and Bekah and Lewis were, well, furious. But sometimes you have to make bold moves and try new things or you’ll never know how cool it really is to have a blue tongue.

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Florence’s So-Called life: Season 1, ep 4

In which Florence faces peer pressure from her brother.

(read in the voice of Florence, which sounds uncannily like a 14-year-old Claire Danes)

Sometimes Wiley and I totally get each other.

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And sometimes it’s like we’re two different breeds.

Sometimes he’s like, the bravest, coolest, guy. He’s all confident… and swaggering… and peeing on everything. The trainer said that Wiley enjoys “marking his territory” more than he enjoys fetch and the other kiddie games she made me play. So she just let  him. Everybody just lets him. Sometimes he marks me…and I just don’t even…I can’t even stop him.

He just lays in the room like he owns it…

Wiley's so cool that PROFESSIONAL ARTIST sketched him once, at our house. by Jacinto Guevara
Wiley’s so cool that PROFESSIONAL ARTIST sketched him once, at our house. by Jacinto Guevara

while I’m constantly finding myself awkwardly in everyone else’s way.

I don't understand why yoga mats are not for sharing.
I don’t understand why yoga mats are not for sharing.

He’s just sort of…over it when it comes to food.  He never begs. He never chomps Bekah’s hand when she gives him treats. It’s just…not a big deal to him. I get so excited I jump in circles, fall down, and then end up biting her hand. And then I’m in trouble.

One day he asked me to keep a secret for him. I promised I would, because I want him to think I’m cool. Then he broke out of the fence. He goes through Delilah and Henry B.’s yard like it’s nothing. Like Henry B. is not the scariest dog on the block.  I’m just scared that one day, you know, he’s going to get into trouble. Not just because Bekah has to go running down the sidewalk in her nightgown screaming like something off of “Real Housewives of Appalachia.” I mean real trouble. What if, like, ACS gets him?

Here I'm in a funk because Wiley's mad at me for telling on him.
Here I am worrying about Wiley, waiting by the front door.

So I told Bekah. Then Wiley was mad, because I broke my promise. But sometimes being a good friend/sister means doing things your friend/brother doesn’t like. 

So… yeah… Wiley’s, like, totally brave. But then…it rains. And suddenly he’s a complete mess. There’s drool everywhere, he shakes, he hides in the shower. He has to wear this ridiculous shirt, that only half-fixes the problem.

And then I’m like, well, I guess maybe we all aren’t so brave sometimes. I’m afraid of maracas. Wiley’s afraid of low barometric pressure. We’re all just sort of a mess, but we’re family.

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