How to Have A Morning

Wake up at 3:00am. Roll first on your right side, then on your left side, then your right side again. Recognize, even in your bleary state that those are lyrics from mewithoutyou. Try to return to sleep. Fail. As the alarm "waca waca's" a beckoning call at 4:30 sit up (it's not graceful, but no one is awake to judge). Realize that your right ear is completely plugged. Shake your head, amazed, that no one told you pregnancy induces deafness. Determine to write a book for all young women after you, explaining the truth about pregnancy. With a sigh, realize this will probably bring the world's population boom to a staggering halt. Can't have that on your head.

In the process of getting ready, realize that you have no clothes that fit, and so determine to rescue a work appropriate outfit from the washing machine. In the dark, forget you put up the gate for Noah, find it with your shins, nearly tumble head first down eighteen stairs into the basement. Express gratitude to your Maker that you and Hannah are not now dead. Hurrah!

Complete the getting ready process, scoop up your sleeping boy, and head out for Nana's house. Stop to get gas. This is not relevant to the process of Having A Morning, but will perhaps seem an ironic reference point in the future. And it's cheap! Woohoo!

Drop off your boy, kiss him and request he behave as best he can. Realize that you rather need to go to the restroom, but determine that getting on the road and getting to work is far more important. It can wait.

Close to the freeway entrance notice that the temperature gauge on your Subaru is reading rather high. Flip the heater on high, and comfort yourself: it always goes down once you get moving. Drive. Watch the gauge climb. Pray. Pray hard. Hear a football commentator in your head: "She's at the yellow... she's at the orange... she's in the red... BREAK DOWN!" Push on the gas and get no response. Crank the wheel with all your might to navigate the sputtering Behemoth off to the shoulder. Smoke will pour out of every crevice in your car. It will smell terrible, and probably give your unborn child cancer. But it's kind of pretty.

Did you mention it's snowing now? Full on blizzard? Can't leave these important details out.

And you still really need to go to the restroom. Just not on the side of the freeway in a blizzard illuminated by the scowling headlights of oncoming mac trucks and your own trusty flashers. ... You can't find the flashers? Well, there's only one thing to do: scream. When no flashers turn on, scream again, just in case they didn't hear you the first time. Whimper.

Call your husband. Put on your calm, wise, optimistic voice. Ask him very kindly what you should do. Smile and nod often; because people can hear a good attitude and a happy demeanor through the phone. (Stop almost crying!) Be very grateful to your Defender that you have a liter of water in the backseat. Listen as your husband instructs you to pop the hood, poor said water into the coolant tank, let the whole thing cool for five minutes, and then try to limp it off the freeway. Pretend you are not utterly terrified by every step in the process he just outlined. Wish him goodbye (hopefully, not forever), climb your nine month pregnant self over the center console to get out on the passenger side so as not to be flattened by early morning traffic, and then remember the hood-popper thing is inside the vehicle. Climb back over the center console, pop the hood, climb again, and stand to face your smokey Suba in the snow.

It is now snowing heavily. And it is cold. And you still need to use the restroom.

Locate coolant tank. Unscrew cap. Do not get sprayed in the face by boiling coolant. Do be very thankful for that point. Empty a liter of water into the tank. Realize it is not enough. Sigh. Climb back over the center console once again, start up the car, pull into traffic, and start praying. Hard. Manage to limp the traitor vehicle to your parking spot across from the train stop. As you stop, ridiculous amounts of smoke will pour out again. And the lights will not turn off. Oh, you can try, try all day if you want, those buggers are staying on.

Notice how haunted your car seems with the snow swirling down around it, smoke billowing from under its hood, the rebellious lights eerily glowing in the night. Suppose that if your car is haunted that would make you the ghost. That can't be right: ghosts don't have to go to the bathroom really badly. Understand that the only other reasonable option is that while owned by you here on earth, this car is the property of the anti-christ in the spiritual realm. Consider a nickname for the demonic Subaru: the anti-christ mobile. No, that's not very catchy. The Beast Wagon! Haha, Beast Wagon. Think yourself very clever. Pray for the demolition of your pride.

Walk through the driving snow to your train, climb aboard. Despite the fact that you are pregnant out to here, no one will offer you a seat.

Have contractions.

Put on a face of deep discomfort, even moan a little and hold your belly. No one will offer you a seat. Curse them. Curse them, we hates them! (Turn into gollum in your mind. See yourself shrinking, getting skinny and vile.)

Pray. Pray hard. Pray that your worldly, diabolical self will go up in smoke. Smoke. Haha. Think yourself very clever. Pray for the demolition of your pride.

Arrive at work: still deaf, still needing to go to the restroom, smelling of engine and forest fire, still contracting. Wonder what exactly you are going to do at the end of the day (or if you go into labor). The Beast Wagon is parked fifteen minutes away, filled with all manner of demonic intentions. Don't care. Really, don't. "For who of you can add a minute to his life by worrying." Just have some breakfast, drink some cool water, trust in Your King of Glory, and for goodness sake, woman, go use the restroom!

The Dog Park

Initially, we bought an English Bulldog with visions in our head of our lazy, lumpy hound laying idly on the couch all day, only moving to begrudgingly trudge to his food dish. In our naivety, we didn't realize that putting an 'Olde' in front of 'English Bulldog', turns the sluggish pooch into a hyperactive, attention-hungry, hihihihilovemelovemeloveme assault on the senses. We do love him so much, but it has been a learning process. Expectations rarely match reality.

With me being pregnant out to here (envision my arm fully extended away from belly), the husband working, in school full time, and doing clinicals, and a Noah discovering the world is amazing (in a danger around every corner kind of way), Dumpster has been somewhat neglected. I can't wrangle his bulk well enough to make walks safe, so Justin has to steal 10-15 minutes a night to run him around in the back yard. We're trying to make life fair for him (and we continually remind him that other dogs as endearingly offensive as himself have to sleep outside in the cold instead of on a fluffy, warm couch [what's left of our fluffy, warm couch]), but my first born, human child takes precedence.

On Saturday, as a treat, we loaded up the family and took Dumpy to the dog park. We'd never tried this before, so we were somewhat unprepared. Dumpster didn't seem to care. He LOVED it. There were at least 12 other dogs there running around, and he could not get off the leash fast enough to go make friends. This is problem number one with our beloved bully: he thinks everyone in the universe wants to be his best friend, so he just strolls right up and introduces himself. (In the same way that a monster truck strolls up to a sedan in a demolition derby.) Someone had brought a herd of little yorkies, who were incredibly well-behaved. They trotted nobly by their master as he strolled around the perimeter of the park. Until Dumpster went to say hi that is... Just picture a big fuzzy white bowling ball, and a bunch of terrified, yipping, bowling pins.

The other problem with our Dumpy is he thinks he is exactly the same as every other dog. He thinks he is just as big as the Great Dane. He thinks he is just as fast and tireless as the hound. He believes himself to be as well-groomed and well-mannered as the little yorkies. He ran and played more than any over-sized bulldog probably ever has. I would love to see the self-image Dumpy has of himself. I imagine it looks something like this: 

                      

In reality, once we got him home, this is how our bully looked for the rest of the day... and even part of the next day: 

Not to mention the smell. Dumpster had at least ten other dog's drool on him, not to mention his own delightful bouquet. Imagine wet dog, mixed with raw trout, and a touch of a tummy ache. Voila, Ode de Dumpy.