Strike Three Kinda Hurt

I am admitting to be a bad mom here. (Pretend that you're shocked.) I start out with good intentions, setting my alarm so that I can rouse the troops in time for school. And that's kind of where my duties as a good mom end. They're on their own from there. Brushing their hair or eating breakfast is kinda optional and I leave that choice up to them. (You know, building independence and confidence and all that.) I do manage to notice them long enough to put a nix on shorts in sub-zero weather, and ask if they have their backpacks.

So this morning was like any other. And I was zoning in my own little world wishing I didn't have to get up with the kids so stinking early (you've felt that way, too. Don't judge.) when Luke says "my eye was all crusty this morning. I had to pick lots of stuff off it."

I snapped to attention and focused in on his baby blues. Only it was more like pink-and-blue-and-puffy. Drat. He stayed home today and we got to visit the doctor. This was especially fun because I'd already decided that the puppies were going to the vet today. Gigantor just keeps growing and Wee Nessie just won't. It's time to let the vet worry about it; I've been for 3 weeks.



So while we were waiting for Micah's van to pick him up, I decided to change him. Sending him to school in pajamas is only cool on pajama day, and that's not today. Oh, look! His staph infection seems to have made another appearance on his little bum cheeks. So I scribbled a hasty note to the school explaining what it was (along with the fact that it's not contagious and they could stop panicking now) and requested they apply some of the cream that I've so thoughtfully enclosed when they change his diaper.

And then I got a phone call from the school nurse. Um, stupid new mom, we cannot administer any medication or ointment without the express written consent of a doctor. Here's our fax number. Something tells me that nurse was not humored by my "you can stop panicking now" note.

Today was an extra special kind of day because we got a doctor-in-training to do Luke's prep. I even got to teach her something - dogs and kids can share pink eye. (One of the dog crew had pinkish eyes upon close inspection this morning. It may or may not mean anything and since we have drops on hand I administered liberally. Yes, we are our own canine pharmacy.) The trainee didn't completely believe the weirdness I'd told her so she confirmed with the Dr. when he came in the room. He confirmed, she learned, I felt I did my good deed for the day.

We headed to the vet to get the puppies looked at. I voiced my concern for dwarfism, which would not have been fun at all. I also knew, if diagnosed, that the best thing would be to put Wee Ness to sleep. The vet said I'd made a good judgement call, but his diagnosis was more along the lines of hydrocephalis. The final outcome was the same as dwarfism, and we both knew this. My vet rocks. He couldn't be more kind, considerate, sympathetic and professional. And yet I stood there and cried like a baby. Darn me - I knew going in that we probably wouldn't be coming home with Nessie. Mother Nature can cull the weak and sickly from among a litter and I take it in stride. It's Nature's way. But there's something vastly different about me having to make the choice to take a life. Playing God is not my strong point.

There's such a fine line in this dog raising business between loving dogs enough to actually have a bazillion around (a least one of them not housebroken at any given time) and learning to separate yourself from them enough to not care when bad things happen. There are occasions when that line gets awfully fuzzy and difficult to find.

Luke and I spent our time in town treating ourselves to a Happy Meal and Starbucks. Sometimes you've gotta buy happiness if you've left yours at the vet. But given the grand scheme of things, I'd rather lose another dog than be told that my son will never talk. It's all about priorities and perspective.