Tag Archives: otto

Language of Life

Otto, our now 11-week-old puppy, was sick last week, with some kind of rash on his neck and a vomiting problem. We feed him healthy dog food that comes from a reputable store, yet he still insists on eating leaves, sticks, feces and winged insects in the backyard. I get it, he’s a dog, and there’s not much you can do about his dietary predilections. “Don’t eat that bee!”, for example, proved to be ineffective.

But Scarlett was really grossed out by his throwing up. “IF I hear him making that sound one more time like this,” she announced, making a gagging sound herself, “I will completely lose it.”

I don’t think I talk like that. In fact, I often suspect she gets most of her vocabulary and phrasing from the books that we read. But per-haps her dramatic flair and penchant for hyperbole do come from me. My husband is a pretty calm person. You can make him mad (and, in case anyone is curious, I know exactly how to do that), but for the most part he’s even-keeled and takes things in stride. Thus far, those qualities do not seem to have rubbed off on our daughter.

“I’m mad at you,” she’ll inform me, after watching two episodes of the Care Bears on our giant TV. “You never let me have anything, and this behavior is unacceptable.” This is because I said no to gum. Read More>

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Just Monday

I woke up early this morning, my hair matted down under my breathing mask, so thirsty I could feel the dry pockets in my mouth eviscerating all the moisture in the room. Sleeping is uncomfortable now, so that sometimes, when I find myself in the perfect position (usually on my side, with my legs tucked up in psychic regression) I feel that I have never been happier. Take something away, take it away again and again, and then return it, even just partially. It’s either the definition of bliss or the definition of torture. I can’t decide.

Otto woke up at 5:30 AM, crying in his crate next to Rob’s side of the bed. He’s been sleeping pretty well, but it’s still something like having a new baby, and Rob mutters his displeasure at these early risings. It’s not just the dog. When I’m thirsty in the middle of the night, I need Rob’s help to wrestle the mask up above my lips, to hold my water bottle up so I can drink. When my legs are so leaden under blankets that used to feel like air, I have to ask him to roll me over. Then the dog cries, then Scarlett appears. Then it’s breakfast time, the day has begun, and we feel that we didn’t get quite enough night.

The nighttime difficulties make me feel the most helpless. I lie there for as long as I can, not wanting anyone else to be disturbed, and still, eventually, I throw the sleep grenade. I have to. Read More>

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Stolen Summer

My memories of summer start with heat. In the mornings, coming down to breakfast, hair sticky with sweat. Spending afternoons at the community pool, eating melted peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and hot fruit, wishing our parents would spring for something from the concession: salty popcorn, Sno cones, nachos dripping with gooey cheese. Evenings, still so light that we could sometimes walk down the block to the library in our pajamas, which felt like some incredible adventure. Then running through the grass, catching fireflies until it was time to go to sleep again, the open windows letting in some breeze, kicking at the single sheet, all that was manageable with the thick air.

I grew up outside Chicago, in a suburb called Oak Park, where many of my family and friends still live. As I got older, summer meant “L” rides to the beach,  the final blocks traversed with a pair of rollerblades, a skill I never quite mastered, so that on the downhill parts, I could almost always be trusted to run into a newsstand.

At the beach, my girlfriends and I lathered ourselves with suntan oil, virtually nothing protective about it, and laid out on bright towels to bake ourselves golden. We met boys, lied about our ages, and once drank spiked kool-aid from a large cooler with boisterous characters we’d only just met. Read More>

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