Nate v Sam on a Snow Day

It had been a long weekend. President’s Day, so no school on Monday. Pretty standard. But to allow for parent-teacher conferences, the kids had a half-day on Thursday and a full day off from school on Friday, creating a four and a half day weekend. What a treat. 

And to really hammer the bleakness home, God gifted us record-setting low temperatures and tickled Kansas City with snowfall the entire weekend.   

But honestly, it didn’t bother me. It’s February. It’s cold anyway. We can sleep in, stay inside, eat comfort foods, sip hot chocolate, watch Baywatch. Glorious.

And the first days were just that—glorious. The boys had basketball and a steady stream of play dates, just enough interactions for those moments when your immediate family just isn’t cutting it for you. 

It started snowing again on Monday. As the temperature plummeted. A lot. Well below zero, even during the day. And yes, I mean degrees. And yes, I mean Fahrenheit. 

By midday on Monday, the school declared a snow day on Tuesday. And thanks to the threat of rolling blackouts from the energy companies, the schools couldn’t even be “virtual.” Some people lost power for several hours at a time. Meanwhile, pipes were freezing and bursting and many neighbors were without water. I mean, it wasn’t Texas, but for a first world country, it was a little uncomfortable. 

And it would have been dangerous to send the kids out to play in the snow. At one point, it was negative 9 degrees IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY. 

On Tuesday night, I received a few texts from other parents, “Do you think we’ll have school tomorrow?”

“I do,” I wrote back. And I did. I knew it was going to be cold again, but warmer than the day before, and the snow was tapering off. 

So the next morning, which happened to be Nate’s birthday, I woke up a tad earlier to make the lunches I had neglected to make the night before and found that school was canceled. 

Sighing, I sat down in the dining room to begin going through my emails while Kyle and Tighe puttered sleepily around the kitchen getting their breakfasts together. Tighe wakes Nate and Sam by 7:15, so it would be nice to let them sleep in a bit. Usually the sun is just creeping in through the blinds, so Tighe turns on their closet light to wake them up. Typically, Nate pops out of bed immediately and calls out his breakfast order. No time to waste. 

“Hey Dad!” he says, pulling on his hunter green uniform polo shirt. “I’ll have Cheerios and orange juice.”

Sam, meanwhile, needs more coaxing out from under the covers. Especially during the winter. He usually rolls away from the light, pulling the Sherpa blanket up over his face and pretends he doesn’t hear Tighe.

But that Wednesday morning, just a few minutes after I settled at the table, about twenty minutes after 7, we heard pounding down the steps from the third floor. Nate weighs less than 65 pounds, but somehow his diminuendo downstairs causes the entire house to vibrate. 

“Hey, Nate! Happy birthday!” I kept my voice low so the rest of the kids could enjoy sleeping in.

“Why did no one wake me up?” he was slightly confused, but mostly irritated, his palms facing the ceiling and his eyebrows furrowed.

“Another snow day. Happy birthday!” Tighe said, pulling bowls down from the cupboard. 

“What? Again?” He rubbed his temples with his fists and threw his head back in despair.

“On my birthday of all days. I’ve gotta tell Sam.” He turned and sprinted back up the steps. He’s one of those kids who does everything fast, at full speed.

Sam, on the other hand does nothing fast. He’s observing the world. Or thinking, distracted by some sort of scheme he’s concocting. Or something shiny. Or a squirrel.

And nothing adds weight to his boots like the doom and gloom of an impending school day. Eating his school day breakfast takes an eternity. Putting on his school socks takes another eternity. Add shoes, a backpack, coat, hat, mittens, and a mask and you’re talking eons of slowness. 

He actually likes school. He likes his friends and his teacher and tackling scholastic challenges, but more than anything, Sam likes doing what Sam wants to do, so he’d rather stay home and play with Legos or paint or build something out of shoeboxes. And so he drags his feet in the morning, delaying the inevitability of a day of being told what to do.

To sum up this post, here’s a picture from three and a half years ago.

“Watch,” Tighe said under his breath, “Sam will be down here in record time, fully dressed, and eager to get his snow day started.”

And he was right. 

Just as Tighe finished that statement, Sam’s lanky body slid down the steps like a slinky cheetah, and he was already slipping socks onto his feet.

“Amazing,” I gasped. 

“Sam! How’d you get down here so fast? What do you want for breakfast?”

“What do YOU want for breakfast?” he replied.

And thus began his day of Legos, hot chocolate, marshmallows, puzzles, board games, some sort of imaginary friend made of ice which he’s stored in our basement freezer, a joke book, being a smartass, a turkey sandwich soaked in spicy mustard—just the way he likes it, and some other obligatory tasks we imposed on him: putting his clean clothes away, completing a basketball workout, reading a real book, and having a glance at his spelling words for the week.

That night, I was in the kitchen preparing their lunches for the following day. 

“Oh, you’ll definitely have school tomorrow!” I said, confidently dolloping more spicy mustard onto Sam’s turkey sandwich before tucking it into his Bento box.

And I was right.

The next morning, right at 7:15, Tighe crept up to the third floor to wake up Nate and Sam. 

Nate bolted upright immediately. “We have school today??! YESSSSSS!”

He was down the steps in a flash, scooping cereal into his mouth and talking with excitement about how much he missed his friends and his teacher and other nonsense that everyone else was too sleepy to reply to. 

Clad only in his underwear, Sam rolled down the steps like a boulder going uphill, then shuffled over to his spot at his cereal bowl, where he zoned out in front of the TV for several minutes.

“Sam!” Tighe began barking his rhythmic prompts that are probably more habit than anything. “Take a bite! Put your pants on! Now your shirt! Take another bite! That wasn’t a bite, take a big bite! Put a sock on! Now your other sock! Take another bite! Where’s your other sock! Where are your shoes?”

On a school day, every single little step is micromanaged. It’s bureaucratic bullshit, as far as Sam’s concerned. 

Dealing with the man like…

Meanwhile Nate is chomping at the bit to get out the door and get to school. His breakfast was finished twenty minutes ago and he’s been waiting by the back door with his coat and backpack on ever since, dangling Sam’s mask and lunchbox for him. 

More on Sam’s approach to school next week. Not only because he took two personal days this week, but also because one of his classmates just tested positive, so he’s about to have two weeks of virtual learning. Yay, pandemic.

Live-In: The Show

Kyle moved in with us. And if you don’t know who Kyle is, then you’re missing out. 

As my childhood friend Heather always liked to point out, usually with exasperation and mild confusion when I was telling a story, we actually have three Kyle’s in our family: Neighbor Kyle, Brother Kyle, and Friend Kyle. They’re all pretty phenomenal characters in their own rights, but this time I’m talking about BROTHER Kyle.

Kyle is one of my three brothers. He’s single and childless and has a vision for a reality show called “Live-In.” Which is kind of what he’s living right now. I haven’t spotted a camera crew yet, but if I‘ve learned anything from MTV’s The Real World, it’s a camera crew’s job to blend in.

Anyway, Kyle has two bachelor’s degrees, a contractor’s license, a bartending license, a real estate license, and is a culinary school graduate. I know, valuable skills.

In Kyle’s reality show, he would move in with a family and complete a home renovation while cooking meals for them. And for extra drama, he’d get involved in the goings-on of the family. He might coach one of the kids through a friendship drama, counsel the couple in their marital issues, or teach one of the younger children to read. Ideally, he’d clean, too, but that might be asking a lot.

And essentially, that’s what he’s doing for us. Tighe’s converted our playroom into his office, which means the mounds of toys that reside in our house need a new room to clutter up. So, we’re finishing the basement and tossing all the toys down the steps.

And that’s where Kyle comes in. He’s been here almost a month, framing, moving ductwork, hanging drywall, flipping omelets, grilling wings, smoking pork butts, chatting with Tess, teaching Sam how to multiply three and four-digit numbers, and showing Lou how to use a circular saw.

When I pick Tess up from school in the afternoons, after the initial “how was your day? What did you do?” her first comment is, “I wonder what Kyle’s doing.” Upon entering the house, she dutifully hangs up her school bag and her coat and tucks her pink unicorn mittens into her hot pink fleece hat, and calls down the basement steps, “Kyyyyy-llllee! I’m home!”

She daintily tip-toes down the steps, one foot, then two feet on the steps, always leading with the same foot, until she reaches the bottom, where she throws both arms behind her in the shape of a T, smiling her biggest, cheesiest smile, as if her arrival to the basement is a long-anticipated gift. 

She praises Kyle’s progress, asks how his day has gone, and then inquires about why he hasn’t moved her pink princess castle down to the basement yet. That will be the finishing touch.

And then Nate and Sam get home. They burst through the kitchen door, like a noisy explosion, tumbling over one another in an entanglement of coats and backpacks and masks, which they discard all over the living room and dining room floors—all places they don’t belong. They pound down the basement steps and pace around the dusty concrete floor, digging their fists into Cheez-it bags or snack-sized Pringles cans or some other dangerously delicious after-school indulgence from Costco, as they tell Kyle about their days.

Nate, believe it or not, does most of the talking. He starts with his football stats from recess that day. Recess is only 20 minutes, but somehow Nate manages to rack up 8 sacks, 3 batted down passes, 6 interceptions, and 9 touchdowns.  And then there’s the inspirational halftime speech he claims to give every single day that fires up even the dullest of third-grade boys. Next he updates Kyle on any funny things his friends said or any of the boy-girl drama that’s starting to develop in his grade. Kyle just nods, periodically pausing Nate with the hum of a saw or a drill and peppering the soliloquy with some thoughtful “uh-huhs…” 

In the reality show/90’s sitcom version of events, Kyle would seize this moment to teach Nate about the birds and the bees and give him some advice on respecting women. I think we have to pay extra for that. 

When Nate runs out of things to say, which can take a while, Kyle starts with a list of questions for Sam. By this time, Sam has usually woven his lanky body in between sheets of drywall or stashed himself in some make-shift hiding place, like above the freezer or on one of the storage shelves, so his one-word replies are a bit muffled. 

But we all know what he’s going to say anyway. He’s a smart-ass. And he’s elusive. So when asked how his day was, how his spelling test went, or who he played with, his answers are all the same, “Chick-fil-A sauce” or “Jimmy.” Even though Jimmy’s not in his class this year and the nearest Chick-fil-A is a good five miles from his school, nor does he actually eat Chick-fil-A sauce.

As the camera zooms in on Sam’s face, Kyle asks him about his feelings and coaxes him to express what’s really going on inside his brain, thus warding off a future homicide.

Then Lou wakes up from his nap. He always puts both hands in the air, palms up, inquisitive, as if to say, “where are my people?” His first stop is the top of the basement steps, where he leans forward, like an adrenaline junkie, and calls out “Hi!” repeatedly. When Kyle appears at the bottom of the steps, he leans backwards and waves, his arm in the air as high as he can reach and his whole hand hinging at the wrist. 

Kyle hustles up the steps to meet him at the top, picks him up and gives him a progress report. Little incriminating footprints dot the basement floor, showing where Lou has tried to pick up tools or hidden screws or just stood to point at the new recessed lights that Kyle’s installed.

“Kyle!” I call out, “Are they bothering you?” I mean, I enjoy the relative quiet in my kitchen hideout, but I also want Kyle to eventually finish the job, so I feel like I have to clear the obstacles for him.

“Uh… I mean, I could get more work done without them,” he calls back, too nice to actually tell them to get out of his way. 

They march up the steps and through the house, a trail of drywall dust behind them, to work on homework, get ready for basketball practice, play outside with friends, or in Lou’s case, empty the contents of all the kitchen cabinets onto the floor.

As dinner approaches, Kyle wraps up his work for the day, Tighe emerges from his new office, and everyone meets up on the couch for a few Baywatch segments. Like a true 90’s sitcom. 

The Life of Wally

“I just don’t think I could ever love another living thing as much as I love this dog right now.”

“Okay…” Tighe barely even looked up from his laptop, where he had zoned out. He claimed he was working, but he was probably reading The Sports Guy’s Mail Bag.

It was February 2012, and I was 40 weeks and 5 days pregnant, sitting on the floor of our living room where I was trying to stretch after a lazy pregnancy workout. Hindering my ability was Wally’s head, which was resting in my lap. Because if there’s one thing about Wally, he can never get close enough to you. 

If you’re petting the top of his head, he needs to push his whole 80-pound torso into your thighs and hips, pinning you up against the nearest wall or stationary object, then nuzzling his head into your crotch, ensuring that you can’t get away. 

If you’re seated, he needs to rest his head on your lap. If you’re on a sofa, he starts with his head in your lap, then gradually starts to rotate his body and inch himself into your knees and thighs until he’s backing onto the couch next to you as though he’s been invited. 

If I’m nearby, he gives me the side eye to see if I’ve spotted his misdeed, and if I have, he lowers his head, embarrassed, and reluctantly returns to the floor. 

Wally fancies himself a lapdog, and although we’ve never allowed him on the sofa or on the bed—did I mention he weighs 80 pounds?—I imagine if we had let him sleep with us, he would have made acts of reproduction incredibly awkward, if not impossible. Which was probably his plan all along.

Joan, our next-door neighbor in our Baltimore townhouse, let him sleep on her bed. And on her basement sofa. In the spring of 2008, we got puppies from the same litter. I picked Wally, who snuggled in my arms the whole two-hour car ride home. Joan picked out his sister Charly, who whined and cried from the backseat for two hours. 

To encourage both the canine sibling bond and our neighborly bond, we made a gate between our fences, so the dogs could sprint back and forth between houses. I never knew which dog would greet me at the front door when I got home from work, or got out of the shower, or dropped bits of food as I made dinner. 

And, as though he was a newborn baby, we took Wally everywhere with us. To my parent’s house to watch Ravens games. To the beach. To Tighe’s parent’s house, two hours away, on the way to the lake for the weekend where he roamed free, from cottage to cottage to fetch a treat.  We didn’t believe in leashes in those days. 

I even remember coaching a lacrosse game while he napped in the shade under the scorer’s table. You can imagine how excited that group of high school girls was upon seeing this soft, cuddly puppy. I might as well have had a newborn baby to share with them.

Which brings me to my next point: Nate.

Nate was born within hours of my pronouncement that I would never love anything as much as I loved Wally. After four days in the hospital, newly christened parents, we returned home to a shamelessly excited Wally. We’d never been apart that long.  

He was thrilled to see us, sniffed the newborn in his car seat for a moment, and then resumed assaulting us with his aggressively happy whimpers and hyper bouncing. And then he took a proverbial backseat. His life was never the same.

Wally and Nate as Ninjas, circa 2015

I had to nurse, I had to change diapers, I had to hold Nate, not Wally. Suddenly our daily 5-mile walks became few and far between. When we moved to Kansas City, our new neighborhood wasn’t exactly dog friendly. There were very few dog parks, and even when I would leash him, I suddenly had two kids, and it was difficult to manage the stroller, a toddler, and a massive, overly exuberant dog who still wants to greet every person he encounters with a chest bump and an open mouth kiss. 

And so Wally’s outings became fewer and fewer. Each child meant fewer walks and more importantly for Wally, less time and attention. 

Wally enduring another summer road trip back East. Also pictured: Nate’s Monkey and Blanket.

When we were almost finished having kids, after Tess but before Lou, we gifted Wally a canine friend, a nice little pit bull/lab/boxer mix we rescued from a shelter. Since he doesn’t even like other dogs, Wally was less than thrilled with the new sidekick, who tried to wrestle and play and chase him around the yard, behaviors Wally is too sophisticated for. 

And now, it’s almost thirteen years after we brought Wally into our home as part of our family, and although he’s been on the verge of death several times over the past few months, he continues to live. 

A tumor has sprouted on his hind leg, right at the knee cap—do dogs have kneecaps?—and swelled to the size of a grapefruit. The giant extra juicy ones that you used to get in a Harry and David gift box or from the local high school’s citrus sale. You know, bigger than a softball, but not quite the size of a bowling ball.

Anyway, the vet recommended we let it ride. Chemo is prohibitively expensive and it could kill him. Surgery isn’t an option because of the location on his body. Even a specialist probably couldn’t remove it all, it would be traumatic, and it would likely grow back.

So we ignored it. And he was still a heartily healthy dog, galloping around the house greeting the mailman and little friends that came to the door, his tumor swinging back and forth like a saddlebag filled with drinking water for a thirsty cowboy.

“Mom, his tumor accidentally hit me in the face!”

Until one day it popped! 

And we’re not even sure how it happened. Tighe thought Wally had been fed up with the sagging appendage and attempted surgery himself. And maybe he did. But whether it popped or Wally punctured it with his teeth, it suddenly morphed into an open wound the size of a golf ball. A close, reluctant examination during which I realized (yet again) I never wanted to be a doctor revealed the grossest sight these eyes had even laid eyes on.

Wally’s tumor, in late October 2020, once it popped. See how it looks like a brain oozing out? (But seriously, if you want an actual picture of the tumor, message me. And then brace yourself.)

It looked like a brain slowly oozing out of his leg. All pink and soft and mushy, like the Krang from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. 

“Don’t look at Wally’s tumor!” Nate called out, breathlessly restraining the dogs by their collars as he opened the door for Tighe’s sister and her new boyfriend, literally meeting him for the first time.

“Uh…okay,” he murmured, slipping inside the house and assuming Wally was a human. Little did he know that an accidental glance at Wally’s leg could send one into convulsions. Or at least cause one to lose their appetite for multiple days. 

And occasionally, little white, pea-sized nodules—I don’t know if nodule is the proper medical nomenclature—coated in blood slipped out from the gaping wound.

“Mooo-ooom! Wally’s tumor is on the floor again!”

The vet prescribed some antibiotics and told us to try and keep the wound exposed so it would heal, but not to let him lick it, so he sent us home with a plastic cone around his neck.

Which limited his vision. I watched as he walked into walls or got stuck on a piece of furniture that he had forgotten about. 

And Rocket saw the cone as his personal chew toy. Wally tried to shake him loose, but as a pit bull, Rocket is relentless. Geriatric or not, Wally’s irritation only fuels his fire to play and wrestle. Rocket’s a dick.

So I removed the cone, tossed into the recycling bin, and slipped a tube sock over Wally’s leg.

Which he pulled off. 

So I tried to tape it in place. 

But the vet insisted that we not impede his circulation. 

So I pulled off the sock and the tape and we all just ignored it.

And that’s when—things are about to get gross here—the blood diarrhea started. 

I mean, first it was just regular old canine diarrhea. Which is gross no matter who you are. The dogs sleep in the sunroom on the first floor, with the French doors closed, mostly to contain Wally’s angst during thunderstorms. On diarrhea mornings, the stench was like a wall as soon as we walked down the steps. And on really bad mornings, it hit as soon as we opened our bedroom door.

“No more dogs, no more kids,” Tighe muttered to me, a spray bottle and roll of paper towels under his arm. That’s actually become his mantra.

And then there were the nights when Wally woke us up every 90 minutes or so, urgently scooting outside, where he paced back and forth in the darkness, either vomiting or squirting runny diarrhea into the snow.

“This is worse than a baby,” Tighe mumbled around 3am as we stood in our robes, watching Wally in the backyard, our foreheads pressed against the cold glass doors. We were some combination of concerned and curious and annoyed.  

Within minutes of eating anything, he’d vomit.  So he stopped eating. But the diarrhea continued. It was just liquid with lots of blood—the odor was so foul and putrid. Worse than a typical dog poop, like all the acids and bacteria from his intestines were just pouring onto our hardwood floors, plus the metallic stench of blood. It was like he was doing his own cleanse. 

We really thought it was the end. Especially because he was refusing to eat anything and he was emaciated and lethargic.

He was surviving on burgers. For about a month I cooked a slew of hamburgers for him each week, and he ate half of one in the morning and the other half in the evenings. It was the only thing he could keep down and the only thing keeping him alive. 

Finally, one Saturday, after four or five consecutive mornings of awakening to the stench of blood diarrhea, I called the vet.

“We don’t have any openings today and we’re closed tomorrow, but bring him by on Monday morning and we can do another ‘quality of life’ exam.”

And just like that, Wally was better. He took all day Sunday to recover. Suddenly, he was begging for food again and rushing across the dining room to beat Rocket to the next crumb that fell from the high chair. Slowly he regained weight and we weaned him from the burgers back to regular dog food.

As Tighe keeps saying, if the vet had been open on Sunday morning, we would have put him down then. It’s almost as if discussing his mortality inspired him and he dug deep and found the will to live. 

Now, about three weeks later, the tumor has grown back to the size of a grapefruit, and we’re wondering what’s going to happen next? Will it pop again? Was the stomach disruption caused by him licking the bacteria on the wound? Or did the bacteria in his mouth cause an infection in the wound, of which vomit and diarrhea was a side effect?

Now the tumor is the size of a grapefruit again… what’s next?

Sam, without looking up from his Legos: “Or maybe he just got corona.”

Stay tuned…