The Return of the Dog People

Before we had children we were dog people.

You know, those people who buy expensive toys for dogs, who take their dogs everywhere, who have pictures of dogs on their desk. Those kind of dog people.

Then for the first few years of being parents, the dogs faded in priority. Suddenly they were just, well, dogs. I missed the time I had with the four-legged friends I'd referred to more than once as "my training children."

Ha! That goes to show I had no clue.

I just couldn't find time between diaper changes and soccer practice to give them any where near the attention I used to just a few years earlier.

But I've made it up to them. Our German shepherd and beagle – Aussie mix now have far more fun with my daughters than they ever had with me.

Our girls have both become dog people. They have taken the leash from our hands and run off with the dogs to places I never imagined.

They have taught them tricks I never thought of, a half dozen of which involve the trampoline.
They have discovered the joy of the doggie vacuum, bringing in the dogs for clean up duty when the goldfish crackers get "accidentally" knocked over.

They have become regular hostesses of previously forbidden left overs lunch party, where many a rejected food item is snuck outside while I "wasn't looking" (often because I was told "Mommy! Don't look!").

They have loved on these dogs, full body hugs, even when it seems clear to me that both dogs have had a skunk visiting during the night.

They have taught both dogs to find the ball when it's buried in the playground, tossed into the pretend grocery cart, and stuck in a tree. Did you know a beagle/aussie (known as a Bossy around here) can, when properly motivated, climb a live oak?

They have taught the dogs to wear feather boas gracefully and tolerate a change of fur color when the poster paints are brought out for "rainbow dog day."

And most of all, they've taught me just how fun it can be to have a couple of dogs in the family again. Even if they smell like skunk.

Child of the Volcano
Recently we temporarily adopted a little girl, sort of. She knocked on the wall of the hallway and informed me that she was here to live with us because she had lost her entire family in a tragic volcano eruption.

"It was the lava," she said solemnly, looking remarkably like our four year old, right down to the curls.

"I imagine it was very dangerous," I said, noting her serious demeanor, appropriate for a recent orphan.

“Yes, it was. There was a fire.” She looked up, either checking for a smoke alarm or recalling the eruption.

Mireya, who was now the orphan named Sophie (which, incidentally is the name of our real daughter's real best friend), came with an imaginary small bag of belongings which she dutifully unpacked.

"Well," I said, "let me show you around."

We toured the house and I pointed out where the bathroom, kitchen, snacks and playground were. She noted each location politely, nodding and clearly committing the strange environment to memory. We talked a little about the rules. Where to put your dirty clothes. Where the shoes go. The "scrape your dish" rule.

Then I introduced her to our two dogs, whom she agreed were very nice. She asked me to repeat their names twice, because she wasn't sure who was who.

I have to say, she was so exceedingly pleasant that I wondered, briefly, if we could make this arrangement permanent.

For about 24 hours we adopted the child of the volcano, introducing her to Grammy, her adopted sister and her adopted father. In fact, Daddy, when he heard the story of the volcano, insisted it was simply too sad and he just couldn't bear hearing about it ever again.

Periodically we'd all slip up, forgetting that she wasn't Mireya, hadn't lived here forever, and had no idea where she might find a fork for her dinner. She'd smile and remind us that she was the orphan who came to live with us, and naturally needed some extra assistance.

This year we've seen many incarnations of our four year old. She's been a princess, a secret agent, a finishing school student, a new girl in school, and a very scary monster. As the spotlight shifts onto a new character, I find myself wishing for an encore of the child of the volcano.

That kid even picked up her socks. Try to get a princess to do that.

Ballerinas and Butterflies

Mireya is taking ballet classes. Actually it's aptly named "creative movement," a phrase designed, no doubt, to manage parental expectations. After watching the class for a few weeks I've come to realize something about teaching ballet to three and four year olds.

It requires a saint.

Surrounded with little girls with the attention span of butterflies, somehow the teachers manage to get them to follow instructions for 45 minutes.

Well, it's more like 30 minutes with a bit of herding in between, but miraculous nonetheless.
Now with just two weeks to go before the big recital, the dance is really coming together.
Okay, maybe coming together is too strong a term. You know how a flock of butterflies will descend on a field in a chaos of flapping wings and still manage to look nice?

It's like that.

Minus the flapping.

Okay, so there's a little flapping.

Let's just say is it's a good thing the dresses are really cute.

As we've dutifully brought our mini ballerinas to class over these few weeks, Miss Tracie and Miss Christina have gently, and repeatedly taken them through the moves. They've showed them how to curtsy. How to walk like a ballerina. How to sit up straight and not lay flat on the floor making faces in the mirror. How to pick the flower from the rose bush, pirouette, and show it to the audience.

In fact, there are the preschool equivalent of 5000 steps in this routine and I'm just hoping that Mireya won't head for the wings the minute her pink shoes hit the stage.

If she does, I guess it will make a good story to tell at our next family reunion - accompanied with the blurry photo of a barely recognizable ballerina, fleeing her adoring audience.

All of whom will be applauding madly.

Toy invasion
When did we start to have toys with every meal? Remember when toys were rare, almost always just appearing at birthdays and Christmas?
Then along came Cracker Jack. I’ll bet there was someone in the “hook ‘em with the toy” business before Cracker Jack, but they were the first ones I knew about (it started in 1912, you can read about it here).
Remember when Cracker Jack used to put in actual toys? Not rub on tattoos, and weird optical illusions, but cool decoder rings and little figurines? Then all the cereal companies figured out that it’s the kids who close the deal between the flakes and o’s and started stuffing in the toys. Sure, it was a toy that had to last you an entire month worth of cereal, but it was so worth it.
Then they created the “happy” meal. That’s when the wheels came off the wagon in my mind. Now there’s no end in sight. In fact, I suspect that entire fast food chains would collapse into their own grease traps if the happy meal toys were removed by some well meaning, but clueless government regulator who was trying to reduce the size of landfills.
Those toys have magically transformed the least appetizing food into something worth an hour of whining in our house. The begging gets intense as we come within the gravitational pull of the fast food restaurant and before you know it, the car is filled with French fries, something that is inexplicably referred to as “chicken,” and molded bits of plastic. All of which end up in the trash in 20 minutes, only partially eaten and nominally played with.
It’s like a fish taking the bait, then spitting out the worm once it’s in the boat.
After I recently cleared out 6,452 stuffed animals in my daughters’ room, I uncovered a half dozen unopened happy meal toys. As I tossed them in the trash, I briefly wondered if there was a market for these things.
Of course there is! On the online auction site. Once again I’ve be throwing away my children’s college fund education because of a misguided need to “straighten up.”
Thankfully, there are a few second tier fast food places trying to rise above the rubble. In our last trip we scored a Russian language CD. We still can’t say hello in Russian, although we did discover that godzilla (or something that sounds remarkably like godzilla) means “good afternoon.”
I think. Or was it “fries, please”?

Are my daughters related to each other?

Sure, they have the same parents, but they are so different from each other I begin to doubt the whole genetic thing.

I thought that one of the benefits of having two children—especially when they are of the same gender—is the cost savings. You've already got clothes, toys, furniture and all kinds of developmental items (which you found out were completely worthless but at least you wouldn't be compelled to buy them again!).

So when I found out that we were having another girl, the budget maven within was very excited. Until I discovered exactly how much variety is in two people's DNA.

Sierra, our oldest, loves jumping and running, hates wearing dresses and is big on music—the louder, the better. She's happiest in Capri pants and t-shirts, the less fuss the better. I can't keep her shoes on; they are like reading glasses at a high school reunion—off at the door. She's totally horse crazy.

Mireya, our youngest, was born as a princess without a country. She loves all things pink, frilly and sweet. Her shoes must be fancy and shiny and accompanied by "stockings." Lace is good, as are crowns, heels and taffeta. She doesn't care for music, unless it's classical and involves dancing like a ballerina. For which she has the appropriate outfit.

On a recent trip to a National Park I was concerned that Sierra was getting to be a Junior Ranger and Mireya, being too young, was being left out. As we were walking in I turned to Mireya, figuring I should prepare her. "You know Sierra's going to be a Junior Ranger?"

"Yes," she said in her pink long dress, the taffeta barely concealing her white paten leather shoes. This was in the Rockies, no less. "She's a ranger and I'm a princess."

No question who she thought had the better deal going.

So it has been completely worthless, from a budgetary standpoint, to have two girls. Not only are all the toys completely different for a bouncing, athletic girl and a ballerina princess, but now I have no hand-me downs. Zero. Once she got to the age of expressing her opinions, I couldn't get Sierra into a dress with a crow bar. So I stopped buying them, opting for pants, shorts and t-shirts. Mireya, on the other hand, hasn't worn anything other than a dress for over a year.

I've tried to find comfort in the fact that they wouldn't be fighting over any toys. Then they came out with the princess editions of My Little Pony. Those toy companies have it in for us, don't they?

Still, with the exception of plastic horses, I've got two very different divas on my hands—a rock star and prima ballerina – similar, but with vastly different wardrobes and set design.
So I wonder—were they switched at the hospital? Does someone out there have the other tomboy or princess?

More importantly, do they have any hand-me downs?

Hello? Can I Help You?

I really admire telephone customer service people. There are plenty of tough jobs in this world, but dealing with people in need of customer service over the phone is right up there with President and 7th grade biology teacher.

I recently went on a tour of a call center where I meet the leader of a valiant crew of customer service folks. After hearing about the thousands of calls handled every day, I learned that they have all kinds of certifications for their CSRs (which stands for customer service representative).

Some CSRs are certified in new accounts. Others can speak Spanish. But the one certification I wanted to sign up for immediately was "Irate."

Boy, could I use that one.

To be certified for "Irate" you go through a special training in dealing with people who are no longer capable of rational thought. People who can't accept that even if you make their problem better, you can't make it never have happened in the first place.

I know how they feel.

I imagine a day in the life of an Irate Certified CSR is like being surrounded by three-year-olds. Three-year-olds who have just been informed that they can not eat a cookie even though they were assured that they would get to by someone else who didn't know there were no cookies left in the house. And then that someone took both sets of car keys.

Or the three-year-olds who want to play with the one toy in the house that requires a type of battery that is apparently only used on the space shuttle and does not understand why we can't fix it NOW.

Which got me to thinking. Maybe I could open up a side business for training CSRs for their "Irate" certification. After all, I've got two Olympic caliber irate trainers on my payroll. In a single day I handle thousands of irate issues from two dissatisfied diners, annoyed artists, and unhappy urchins – my girls.

One problem. We'd probably lose half our students on the first day.

So my hat's off to those Irate Certified CSRs. They face a long line of angry calls everyday. And for them, far too many of their customers won't do what mine will do all too soon.

Grow up.