We're Both Drowning

One of my besties posted this comment after the uncomfortable (disconcerting?  inappropriate?  controversial?) marriage post:

Word, baby, and I'm proud of you for putting it out there. But you didn't even tell us one thing that was in the magic book that immediately in one second turned everything around. 

Right.  I just sort of said, "Hey, I obsessively think about divorce all the time.  Then I started reading a book that seemed to instantly clarify things for me.  Now I'm not getting divorced."  But no details.

So here's a little more.

The reason Baer's book hit me so hard, in a good way, were his three propositions about why we struggle in marriage:

1)  Most of us don't get enough Real Love.
2)  So we feel like we're drowning all the time.
3)  Then we develop mechanisms to get things that approximate Real Love, or to protect ourselves from the feelings of not having enough Real Love.  We'll do anything to stop drowning.

For me, that described me and E.'s problems to a tee.  It looked like this for me:

1)  I feel lonely, sad, short on cash, overweight, whatever.  Lack, scarcity.  Or like I have a husband who ignores me, can't communicate, has trouble finding work, etc.  Whatever the criticism of the minute is.
2)  I desperately want out of these horrible feelings.  I eat, shop, or obsess to avoid them.  Also, since E. is the "cause" of them, maybe divorce is the solution.  But I don't want a divorce.
3)  I nag, cajole, manipulate to get E. to do what I want since I'm stuck in the marriage, don't want a divorce, but am not happy.

Such a vicious cycle!

To simplify:  I had really gotten in the bad habit of blaming everything on E. and not doing the work of marriage, which for Baer, is admitting all of the "getting and protecting" behaviors we engage in to get what we want or avoid what we don't.

The result:  lots and lots of isolation, hard feelings, resentment, anger, sadness, and fear.

I look lovely like this when I'm drowning.  Don't you?

What to do, then?  Well, Baer makes a lot of suggestions about how to break out of this cycle, with lots of funny little activities and things that I've been doing a little at a time (even though I feel enormous resistance, which tells you how entrenched my old habits were and how much I like the feeling of righteousness).

The trick, according to Baer, is this:

1)  Experience more Real Love.  Real Love is basically unconditional love.  It can feel tricky to come by and you have to be vulnerable to get it.  Holy crap.  So hard, until you get the hang of it.

2)  To experience Real Love, you have to feel seen and accepted.  To feel seen, you must be very, very, very honest about yourself (especially about your shortcomings).  Otherwise, what other people are seeing isn't the real you, and then you can't be unconditionally loved.  This has been the hardest piece of it for me because I'm such a bad-ass narcissist most of the time.  Jesus, I had no idea.

This is very different from just venting, say, at girls' night out about how difficult your husband is.  I'm good at that.  And I think this is slightly different from being emotionally promiscuous, which both Ang and I are excellent at.  Being seen happens at a level deeper than that.  I would wager that Ang and I are different with our respective best friends than we are in a group at a party.  There's a different level of vulnerability.  You lay aside your defense mechanisms to be seen.  It's scary.

3)  To get accepted, you have to be honest about yourself with wise people, people who can be trusted with who you really are.  Some people are wise only some of the time, and that's fine.  You may only have one or two wise people in your life, or you may have none.  But you need to get some, because they can offer you unconditional love.  As long as they can see you when you need to be seen, in small doses here and there, your love jug will get filled on up.

Some of us screw up and trust the wrong people with our vulnerability, and they hurt us, bad.  This post isn't about that.  I'm assuming that you can pick who to trust a little bit here.  If you have trouble picking out the wise people, I strongly recommend therapy, really.  It has been so helpful to me and most everyone I know.

4)  Once your love jug gets filled up, you can love on the other people better.  My love jug was feeling empty a lot, and I have been super stingy with love for E.  Paradoxically, loving on other people unconditionally also makes you experience more Real Love.

This is a good cycle.  To be contrasted with the shitty cycle above.

There's more to it than this.  I'm still working through the book.  I read a few pages and then journal my ass off.  I do the exercises.  I have been talking to E. in bits and pieces about the mistakes I've made and my getting and protecting behaviors.  I see now that the things he's "done" to hurt me are a result of the fact that, fundamentally, he feels like he's drowning too.  Asking a drowning man to save you when you're drowning isn't going to work.

It is weirdly comforting to know you are both drowning.  Much better than thinking someone you love is also trying to drown you.  Much better than thinking they are hurting you on purpose [and clearly this blog post doesn't cover when someone is hurting you on purpose, physically or otherwise.  Again, different situation].

In any case, little by little we're getting to shore.  Things aren't perfect.  They haven't been healed over night.  But we're getting unstuck, one little stroke at a time.

Shtopping Day 25: Oops

Well, shit.

I'm feeling a little embarrassed (bare-assed) and ashamed, so I'll just come out and say it:  I fell off the Shtopping wagon.  Big time.

Remember how I have that trip to Thailand coming up?  Well, I needed to purchase a few things for the trip.  These were legitimate expenditures, covered under the Shtopping "deal" I made with myself at the beginning of this thing, you might remember.  I didn't buy anything unnecessary--some quick-dry pants, some packing gizmos, travel size toiletries--and I shopped around and found good deals.  I was careful.

But shopping around to find good deals meant that I went into an actual store, namely Sierra Trading Post.

For someone whose spending type is "bargain shopper" and whose fashion choices might be described as "hiker-chic," that particular store is like a crack-den.

See, my obsessive brain has been thinking a lot about how I've been needing a winter coat.  I have my thin little Eddie Bauer down coat, which I've had for years, and is one of my favorite coats, but is really only good for fall nights and spring mornings, chill-factor-wise.  It has no hood and doesn't cover my butt.  I've also have a "fancy" gray wool coat for work (though it had snaps on the front, which all of a sudden started popping open recently, and it had no hood and was not waterproof).  Both nice, lovely coats.  But not really, um, warm.  And maybe showing their age a bit.  Still serviceable, but aging.

[Yes, I also have some jackets, but that's not what we're talking about here.  Shut up, E.!]

Also, as I've been noting relentlessly, it's been cold and gray here (can it be colder than Denver was?  What the hell?  Why does it feel colder?).  Also, I spend a fair amount of time walking outside--taking the kids to school, walking to the store or the coffee shop, etc.  I'm so glad for this.  But it means I spend a lot of time feeling cold.  Which kind of sucks.  It's hard to make friends with a long, dark winter, when you feel like you're in mortal danger every time you step outside.

I kid.  Clearly I was not freezing to death.  At no time did I look at my blue fingers and say, oh boy, these things are literally about to fall off my hand.  At no time did I shiver myself into unexpected weight loss.  At no time did I vomit from the cold.

I was making do, in fact.  I had taken to doubling up the coats, and with a scarf and hat, I was reasonably warm.  I wasn't wearing a sleeping bag around as clothing or anything.  I wanted to, but I didn't.

But still.  Meh.  I knew I needed a winter coat.

But I also wanted to wait until Shtopping was over.  I wasn't actively looking for a coat.  I was going to wait.  And then maybe go to the thrift store and find one there, like usual.

But then Sierra Trading Post.

And then:  I bought two coats.

FML.

Also, a few days later, three work-out tops (a few bucks each at Old Navy, but still).  And a pair of boots.

And maybe a few tops.

FMLx2.

Again:  when I go for it, I go for it.

I can justify each of these purchases.

[Well, I can't justify coat #2.  I don't need two winter coats.  Really.  Although, can I say?  I put that shit on and I feel like Macklemore at the County Fair.  DAMMMMMMN, girl.  Such pleasure in a warm coat or two, I gotta say].

I work out six days a week, so workout tops come and go like kleenex around here.  Same with boots:  I wear the same pair all winter, pretty much everyday, and my old ones were starting to hurt my feet.  My shoulders and biceps have doubled in size because Crossfit, and I've blown out three of my old blouses (yes, like the hulk).  So I replaced them.

All will be used, all were filling a need.

Plus, not all happened on the same day.  I wasn't in some retail-induced haze.  I thought long and hard about them, found good deals, and then spent the money.  Some of my worst habits have not returned:  online shopping, stalking Groupon, mindlessly wandering through Target putting shit I don't need in my cart.  Maybe I'm just an addict fooling herself, but I don't ever want to go back to doing that stuff, and I don't think I will.

Still, I don't like that I violated Shtopping, and I'm a little nervous that I violated the rules of the experiment right before a big expensive trip to Southeast Asia.  Suze Orman would have a fit.

The point is I can always justify purchases, but we are on a budget, and I want to do better for myself and my family, and so I always need to be thinking about 1) whether I have the money to buy something and 2) what it really means to need a purchase.  I always need to take my time, check in with myself, and be honest about what I'm doing.

I suck at all these things.  Also, being nice to myself when I screw up.  Working on that.

So:  back on the wagon.

In a week and a half I get on the plane for Thailand, with one wee rollie-suitcase and a backpack, for ten days.  I'll be taking my Eddie Bauer coat, by the way--it's cold in the northern mountains of Thailand!  I donated the one with the crappy snaps--you're welcome to whoever gets that guy next.  I have a feeling that I'll be thinking about materialism a bit while I'm there, because only brain-dead Americans don't reflect on the absurdity of our way of life, at least a little bit, when they travel.

I'll do a final post on this whole shebang, with some lessons learned, when I get back.  In the meantime, stay warm, my friends.  I know I will.

Emotionally Slutty

Yesterday,  this NY times article came up in my facebook feed, and with a subheading of "36 Questions that Lead to Love" how could I not read it!?!  The questions were surprisingly everyday, just met you questions for me to ask.  Oh, who the hell am I kidding, I don't ask anybody questions, they were surprisingly everyday questions for me to volunteer.  You see I'm an early discloser, I guess you could call me emotionally slutty.

Sometimes this works for my benefit, like in the case of my husband, or best friend.  My emotional sluttiness ingratiates me to some people, they find it endearing, and when I find them endearing too, it can lead to fast and long relationships.  By fast I mean, that I get emotionally close to people extremely quickly, and by long I mean that I am able to maintain a good deal of these relationships for long periods of time.

However, there are instances when my verbal looseness causes me much grief.

Kristyn, (my bff of over 15 years), calls it my "stray kitty complex".  You see that's the rub about emotional sluttiness, by slutty, I mean it's indiscriminate.  I am an early discloser to people I don't intend on having fast or long relationships with.  Almost anyone I meet will get the best friend treatment from me, and for this reason, people who are not good at boundary following often think I'm their best friend.

These are the stray kitties.  The people who I don't really have anything in common with.  People I don't share interests or morals with, often people who's character I find reprehensible.

These people have sometimes experienced a lot of rejection, and oft times for good reason.  However, I am unable to show them the cold shoulder that others readily toss their way.

I'm the woman at the party who, when cornered with the person updating everyone on the pyramid scheme, makes eye contact, smiles, nods her head, and probably offers an antidote or two.

I have spent hours pondering why I do this, and I know it's my humanity.  I can't stand for someone to be left out.

This never ends well.  These stray kitties almost always follow me home, and I leave out the proverbial milk, by accepting their invitations (I don't want them to feel bad), watching their children (they had no where else to go), and in many ways, enabling their dysfunction.  That is, until I can't take it anymore, which becomes inevitable.

At that point I either blow up or stop answering their calls, which is much harder to do, and much more emotionally damaging for all involved than simply  turning that shoulder to them in the first place.

The irony is that I attract these boundary hopping stray kitties, because as an emotional slut, I'm not good at setting the boundary.  God, (or the Universe if you will), keeps giving me these lessons, and at some point I'll learn from them, but until then I'll enjoy the way my early disclosing makes other people feel.  Like they belong.

Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap

As a new found blogger, I admit that there are many moments when I think, "No one gives a shite about my opinion."  Then I remember that most likely, only my best friends and my sisters are reading my blog posts, and I'm comforted.

Now, here's my take on kids and chores.

I've heard people say that they don't pay their kids for chores because they want their children to understand that chores are part of being in a family, and something we all just have to do.  This is true.  After all no one pays me to do the laundry.  That being said, I pay my kids for some chores, and this is why.

A year and a half ago, our family had the good fortune to move into a much larger home.  House prices were not quite on the rebound, and we were able to afford a house twice the size for much less than twice the price.

I was ecstatic to be moving into a bigger place.  I had spent 9 years, most of them with three babies, in 1500 square feet, and while that's a completely adequate amount of space for a family of five, sharing it with the business office, and picturing my boys sharing their 8x10 room and small closet as teenagers made me feel like more might be better.

On moving day, I was relieved to be gaining twice the space, and blessedly twice the toilets....  Until...I thought about who was going to clean those toilets.  Now, Josh is awesome, and participates in many household duties in order to share the housework load, but in the 17+ years we've been married, I can count the times he's cleaned a toilet on one hand.

Suddenly, this bigger house thing seemed like it was going to suck.  I had just doubled my housework load.  I was lamenting about this newly realized fact to my sage like father-in-law when he said, "Ang, your kids are old enough to help out."  Brilliant, light bulb, inspiring stuff!

My kids already helped out around the house from very young ages.  Up until that moment they were already proficient at dishes, sorting and putting away laundry, keeping their rooms clean, and caring for our multiple pets.  And, I had been looking for a way for them to earn money so that I could teach some money management strategies, and here was my opportunity.

Now, every week, all three kids scrub a bathroom assigned to them, leaving me only one.  They dust and vacuum, and it's tremendous help.

I pay them $3, each for it.  That's right, I get three bathrooms cleaned, my house dusted, and the upstairs vacuumed for a grand total of $9 each week.

Wondering how I came up with what seems like such an arbitrary salary?  It's not that I just love the number 3, although, obviously, that one's lucky for me.  It's that I wanted to teach my children to give to charity, save, and spend, and while I started thinking of how to divide nominal amounts of money by percentages, it dawned on me, that it would be much simpler for me and them if I just gave them a dollar for each.

Every week after they clean, I give them each $3, which they take to their rooms, and put in mason jars, labeled charity, spend and save.  The charity money goes to a charity or charities of their choice, the spend money, normally, is spent every week at the local dollar store (always their choice, innumerable lessons about value there), and the save money goes into their college savings accounts.

People have asked me about the quality of their work, and I have to say that, while not up to the standards of The Organic Housecleaners (shameless best friend plug), it's pretty great.  To borrow a phrase from my favorite parenting book, I definitely had to "take time for training", but it all works out pretty well.

The best part is, that with this system my kids are learning invaluable skills about money, keeping the space that they live in clean, and that dirty jobs have to get done, and sometimes you're the one to do them.

They know that they're underpaid, but they don't seem to mind.  They find value in a job well done, and they appreciate having money they earned, and making their own decisions on how to spend.  They've even told me that they appreciate knowing how to clean. 

I took them with me to clean out our rental after our renters left, and after looking at the toilet, Luke said, "I could have cleaned that better.", and isn't that just priceless.

Silver Update!

I realized that I hadn't written in a while about the growing-out-the-gray project that I started (you know, the project I started before the Shtopping project, and the saving-my-marriage project).  When I change things up, I CHANGE THINGS UP.

Anyhoo, here's the update:

• The world did not end.
• Since I stopped coloring I've saved approximately $400 and 12 hours of time (if I was in Denver, you would double that dollar amount).
• I don't think about my hair that much.  Not as much as I used to, anyway.  
• Sometimes I feel old and sad, but it doesn't have much to do with my hair.
• Sometimes I feel invisible.  Which feels a little like the pressure is off.  I don't mind.
• This shit is taking for freaking ever.  When you're looking for roots to appear, it seems like they come in over night.  When you're waiting for them to take over, time slows to an eensy-teensy crawl.
• I haven't seen my real hair in years.  Turns out that it is very dark up top, with lots of nice silver sparklers (some of which poke out and curl around; they having a party!).  But not as gray as I thought it would be.  Very silver on the sides.  Mostly salt and pepper in the back as far as I can tell.

No filters below, just my desk light and a cloudy day (because I haven't seen the sun since 1996, thank you Idaho).  It's grayer in person, with still lots of blonde and orange leftover from the dye.  I'm growing out the length so maybe it will be ombre.  Or I'll look like Rainbow Brite, with every color under the sun.  Mostly, I'm leaving it alone.

This one is a hat:

Also this one:

Happy Wednesday!

Why can't this be Enough?

I posted a few days ago about the email conversation I had with my sister regarding her new found roll as SAHM, and I've been thinking about other conversations I've had with SAHMs and Dads, and about my sister's struggle with her choice to stay at home, and put on break, her career as a civil engineer.  I was a SAHM for 4 years before we opened a business.  During those 4 years I felt very unappreciated by the people in my life.  Particularly the people who went off to jobs everyday.  I also perceived that people I loved and admired saw me as a traitor to my feminist ideals (whether that perception was based in truth or in my own struggle, I'm still not sure), and I felt much the same way.  I did feel like a hypocrite telling my daughter that she could be or do anything, telling my sons that they're future lives and families, (if they chose to have them), didn't have to be defined by typical gender roles, and then living a life where their parents lived extraordinarily typical gender roles.  I was troubled by what I saw as the duplicity of my situation.

Then one day, after we started the business, and I was trying to do the balancing act, I was at a playgroup.  This wonderful playgroup was filled with amazing, interesting, feminist, stay at home mothers and a father.  I was complaining about how difficult I found it to balance the business and the mothering, and how the mothering always ended up winning out in my priority list, when one of these amazing women said to me, "Why can't this be enough?"  I didn't understand what she meant, she elaborated, "This.  Being a mom, making the dinner, making sure everything gets done, baking pies.  Why can't this be enough?"  And I realized just how profound she was... because it is enough.  I understood in that moment, that there was no duplicity in calling myself a feminist and staying home with my children.  There was no shame in using all of my talent, intellectual and otherwise in the rearing of my children and the keeping of my home.  I CHOSE to be a SAHM, and isn't that exactly what a feminist would do?  Choose her own future, her own life, her own happiness.  Yes!  This is enough!  And my conversation with my sister really got me thinking about this.  She felt she had to validate her status as SAHM, when what she was already doing was enough.  Here's a snipit of my reply to her email. Warning, I use strong language with my sisters.

"The SAHM you're talking about doesn't exist.  These stupid people with their stupid blogs, and facebook pages are full of shit.  You would be surprised how many special memories you're creating with your kids, even your routines are creating special memories with them.  Going to the library, swimming lessons, watching special movies together during nap time.  You are creating special memories!!!!  This is another case of your expectations ruining what's already good.  You're an awesome mom, and your kids love being with you.  Some of my best memories are of helping mom in the kitchen, or my kids helping do the dishes, or playing on the floor, or in the backyard pool.  The little moments are the special memories.   And it is that hard!  It's really hard to stay home, it's the hardest thing you'll ever do, and as far as responsibility, you do have responsibility, that's why it's so hard.  You are completely responsible for two little people.  There's no daycare to blame when your kids is acting like an asshole, or no friend from daycare to blame when your kid picks up bad habits.  When you're home, you become painfully aware of how every decision you make affects every aspect of their lives, and that makes it so much harder to take care of them.  And you have no time to think about how you react.  I know that all too well, feeling so much pressure to get it right, and not really being sure how to go about that, and worst of all, no matter how hard you try, no one praises you!!  And it can be boring and lonely...stressful, boring and lonely.  I remember that all too well."

And that is what staying at home feels like, and that is enough.  That is enough of a challenge for a feminist, that is enough of a challenge for anyone.

Unless of course, it isn't.  And by that, I mean, unless it's not what you choose.  I want to respect someone else's choice not to stay at home and still to be a great mother and feminist, as much as I want them to respect my choice to stay at home and be a great mother and feminist.  I want the people around me to realize that staying home is absolutely enough.  Running a household is enough. Giving up my career because I want to be home with my kids is enough!  And it doesn't have to be perfect.  It can be enough without living up to the expectations of other people.  I can be a SAHM and have a dirty house, or order take out for dinner, I can do it my way, and it's enough.

The lesson here of course is more about looking for fulfillment inside, instead of in the approval of those surrounding you, but it also would be nice if the people in a SAHM or Dad's life would give the job a little credit, would realize that it is enough.  Until then, we can look at our lives with the satisfaction of knowing that it is what we choose, it is hard, it is rewarding and it is enough.

Milo Has a Seizure

We have a 100 pound dog, Milo:

Milo, in his first days with us.  Shiny!

We adopted him from a family who had two young girls (like we do).  One of the girls had developed a dog allergy and Milo sheds like an alpaca, and I really wanted a dog, and the only way to convince E. to adopt a dog was to show him a big old black lab (he's a softie for labs).  So we brought him home and we've had him since 2010, which makes him about 7.

Right after we adopted him.  Check out the outfits on those kids.  These outfits are a sign that I am a most excellent mother and encourage my children's creativity and self-expression at all costs.

He has many good qualities.  He is one of the only dudes in the house, so he is basically E.'s best friend.  They talk and cuddle and grunt together a lot.  E. loves this dog.  You could say Milo is E.'s dog, really.  But Milo is also just an excellent family dog.  The girls have crawled all over him from day one and he's never protested.  He's also pretty low maintenance.  He has had a torn ACL since last spring that has required that we really restrict his movements while it heals, meaning no walks longer than a block, and he has remained his normal, cheerful self.  He is house-trained and good-natured, for the most part.

But he has some terrible qualities, too:

1)  He drools like a dental patient.  He wears a bandana most of the time so that we can wipe him off, but it's really an unstoppable force.  He's also fond of shaking real hard when he has long drool strings coming down, which sends boogery drool tracers all over the house.  If you're really lucky, he shakes while you're having dinner and one might land on your plate.  Yum!

And did I say he weighs 100 pounds?  This was not such a big deal when we lived in a big house in the suburbs but now that we live in a little house in the city, it really is like having a camel in your living room.  And he's super crotch-nosy with guests, and loves to smear drool on your black pants right before a big interview.  He's very, very helpful that way.

2)  He is a boy of habit.  Jesus, if Pavlov had met Milo he never would have needed to run the experiments, because this dog has a one-track mind.  He came in to Colorado on the "puppy train," and we think probably was pretty hungry as a little guy because he is food obsessed.  Every morning at 6 or so he wakes E. by rubbing his cold nose and drool-y lips on E.'s armpit, or ear, or wherever else you least want cold dog fluids on you when you're sleeping.  That is E.'s sign that it is time to get up and bring me my coffee or else face the wrath of God.  I love Milo for this.

3)  He loves his ball loves his ball loves his ball.  Milo is also tennis ball-obsessed.  He's especially fond of the game where he drops the ball under a dresser or couch and then tries to wiggle his giant mutant body under that low piece of furniture to get that ball.  Then he will hold the ball in his mouth for hours, demanding your appreciation, while veritable rivers of drool course from his giant cheeks.  But he is very easy to please this way, and since E.'s dad plays tennis, we are set with free dog toys for life.  Occasionally a box full of them shows up and Milo's eyes glaze over in ecstasy.

I won't mention the insane shedding and pooping four times a day, or the snoring/Chewbacca-like groaning because that's just dog stuff.  Whatever.

Wut.

All of this is set-up, right?  You know what's coming.  I'll set the scene.

Boise, Idaho.  Midst of a terrible, gray inversion that makes everyone in this weird state feel a little weirder.  No sun for days.  6:12 in the morning.  Might as well be midnight.  Or 3pm.  Totally disorienting.  Takes 74 minutes to fully wake up, on a good day.

I'm still asleep.  Like the dead.  But through the haze, I hear Milo rustling around.  It sounds like he is looking for his ball.  Giant toenails are scraping against the wood floors, trying to get a purchase.  His giant body is thrashing against something.  I mumble something about him calming the fuck down please and maybe kick E. a little bit to get up and get some coffee.

Quiet for a sec.

More thrashing.  Things come a little more into focus as I realize this is not tennis ball behavior.  There's no dog nose in my armpit.  Something's wrong.  I listen again.

Whimpering, low.  Weird breathing.  More flopping around and scratching.

E. and I fumble for our bedside lamps at the same time.  He's out of bed before I am.

"Wha....?"

"He pooped."

E. is trying to pick our 100-pound dog up.  I think E. is still half-asleep and is panicking because this just freaks both of them out more--E. is trying to get Milo to stop flopping around by cradling this giant beast in his arms and Milo, unaccustomed to being picked up, or still in the throes of whatever is freaking him out, thrashes more.

E. finally gets him onto the floor and gets him to stop thrashing and holds him still.  We both blink.  We are both thinking the same thing:  we fucked up not getting him the ACL surgery and his leg finally gave out.

E., who never cries, crumbles, astraddle giant, heaving Milo.

We didn't get the surgery both because it would have cost $3500 and because the vet said there was only a 40% chance of it sticking.  We'd have to crate Milo all day for months.  And we could expect to do the other leg soon.  And there is disagreement about whether to do the surgery at all.  Given all this, we gambled on not doing it, and the last few weeks Milo was showing some improvement.  I had been taking him on short walks, and his limp was less noticeable.

But honestly?  If this had happened during our fancier days we probably just would have gotten the surgery.  And I could tell this is exactly what was running through E.'s head.  The weight of that.

"No, no, no, honey.  It's going to be okay.  It's okay.  What do you want me to do first?"

"Clean him up."

So I get all the dog shit cleaned up, mostly, and I scramble to let Peanut outside before he pees in the house and I put a bra on and contacts in and some clothes on thinking one of us is going to be driving to the pet hospital.  Milo's eyes are panicky and his back legs aren't working but E. has him calm, finally, and Milo starts relaxing into the nice, mellow massage he's getting.

Then I take over the massage and E. gets dressed and looks up emergency vets on the phone.  Milo slowly comes back into himself and E. suggests we see if he can stand.  I'm doubtful because I'm still pretty convinced that it's his bad leg that has finally snapped or something.  We are such terrible people.  We are dog torturers.  And I'm thinking about how we are going to get him out of the house, into the car and to the vet.

But E. calmly rubs Milo down and slowly invites him to stand, and he does just fine, then walks fine, if a little shaky.  E. feeds him breakfast; Milo goes outside and pees and poops like always.

It feels like E. and I both start breathing again at the same time.  We agree that what we think happened was a seizure.  We think he lost control of his bowels and his back legs somehow and either panicked (thus the flopping) or was flopping around while he was seizing.  Hard to know.

Milo is exhausted--sleepy, no ball chasing, no drool shaking.  But otherwise normal.  We'll get him to the vet tomorrow and hopefully find out this was just a one-time thing, inconclusive, an anomaly.

And if not, well then, we'll do the next thing--medicine, surgery, whatever.  Whatever that is.