Wild Intelligence

We found out this week that there was an opening in the Forrest Caterpillars class at Wild Intelligence. This NEVER happens. There's an email list and a registration date and planning ahead, and needless to say, you know all those things don't really sound like us. 

Wild Intelligence is THE place to be if you're a kid. The mission is to let kids traipse through the woods and play in nature for four hours. Kids learn about animals, plants, bugs, and life. Playing in the creek is allowed. Touching ALL the things is encouraged. Asking one million questions is embraced. The leaders encourage you to bring trash bags for your kids to sit on in the car because they will be so sand-in-their-underwear dirty. If it rains, they go inside a big wooden teepee. Essentially it's the place where you can drop off your kid and let them do all the things you appreciate in theory but do not actually want to participate in. 

Kids develop an appreciation for nature, how to identify things that are unsafe in the woods, and hone their skills of imaginary play. The adults mentors show unconditional positive regard for the kids, and kids have a place to explore and get dirty. And they get tired out. Y'all, every week they have a gratitude circle. The things dreams are made of, right? 

We found out on Wednesday that there was an opening for the class that started on Thursday. This is the first time The Boy has been old enough to go, so I was stoked. I called The Husband and he said I'm working, I can't talk right now we talked about it together and came to the agreement that we would enroll The Boy. Did I mention that you have to commit to and pay for the entire 10 week program? I filled out the forms, paid our money online, and started rearranging my Thursdays to make this work. And then maybe I panicked a little. 

I'M JUST GOING TO SEND MY KID WITH A BUNCH OF HIPPIES INTO THE WOODS?! What the HELL were we thinking? I don't have anything against hippies- I love them in fact. But I was catastrophizing, and it was less dramatic to say "I'm just going to send my kid in the woods with a bunch of people who are more knowledgable and patient than I am?!". I was at work when the panic set in, and my friend Leslie looked at the website and vouched for several of the hippies. That helped a little. I mentally scrolled through the list of clients that I have that rave about the program, and they are all sane. And so are their parents. And that helped a little. 

I am a local expert on child sexual abuse. I often do classes for parents about talking to kids about sex and safety. I know there is a long pattern of grooming, and that it is very unlikely that a stranger (with no opportunity, mind you) would abuse my child. That wasn't my concern. I'm the opposite of an alarmist when it comes to that. 

But there is something alarming about dropping your kid off in the woods with strangers. It sounds bad when I say it that way, doesn't it? 

I searched the local parenting Facebook group I'm on, and everyone had nothing but positives to say about the program. They used words like "I've never seen a group of people who are more dedicated to their craft and constantly working to learn, grow, and give on so many levels" and "the effects (on my child) have been nothing short of life-changing" . There were 21 comments on one particular thread and no one could think of anything negative to say. No stories of rushes to the ER, or dramatic hippie commune kidnappings. 

It was going to be FINE. He was going to love it.  I was excited for him.  Well two parts excited and one part nervous. We packed his lunch and water bottle, sunscreen and bug spray. I let him know a little of what to expect. He said "every day they're open I want to go there!"

Yesterday morning he got ready for camp, and then played with some chalk paint outside. I came in to get BeYoYo dressed and this is what I came outside to. Okay, dressing for the part. Let them know what they're getting into right off the bat. My child was probably the only one who had to sit on a trash bag on the way TO camp. 

On the way there I asked him how he was feeling about it. He said he was excited, and a little nervous. I asked what part made him nervous and he said "I'm a little scared of going off in the woods alone without you."  Uh, you and me both, buddy. I reminded him we would never leave him with anyone we didn't trust. Except for these woodspeople we've never met.....

I wasn't sure how long it would take to get there, so we were the first to arrive. The directions said the drive was across from the mailbox. Oh, this gravel driveway that looks like someone's house? This is not sketchy at all. There was no sign. The first person we saw was a man with dreads and a tattoo across his face. He was barefooted. He waved us in as to say "this is actually the place that you're wondering about." This is SO Athens, I thought. 

We signed in with some other adults, and waited for the other kids to arrive. The Barefooted One talked to The Boy so naturally and kindly. The Boy had paint on his face. The Barefooted One had a tattoo on his. The Boy told him he brought a cicada shell in his book bag, and The Barefooted One was genuinely (GENUINELY!) interested, not just interested in the way that adults pretend to be interested. He said he had a cicada shell in his camper too. 

The adults gathered all the kids to play a game while they waited. The Boy jumped right in, and immediately was having fun. He never looked back, and of course I didn't want him to. 

I stayed with the other mamas and little siblings, watching and talking, until they gathered all the kids and headed off into the woods. He looked back briefly, and I saw him scanning the faces for mine. I waved and told him goodbye, and he waved, happily and bravely, and filed in with a dozen other backpacks to head off into the woods. Goodbye, big boy. I hope you learn so much. 

I called Leslie when I left. "He did fine, of course" I told her. "And you?" she asked. "I did fine too, of course." I drove away, leaving my kid in the woods with strangers. And I was okay with that. Now that he's older I imagine this scenario will happen again and again. I was thankful for the many, many people who rave about this program and the confidence they gave me to leave my child there. I thought to myself that the first group that ever left their kids here, with no positive reviews from others, must have been so brave. Or crazy. Or both. 

The Husband picked him up. He said he was disgustingly dirty, and he was happy and tired. Yes! Yes! and Yes! Last night he talked and talked, about playing in the creek and peeing outside and touching a spider and howling like a coyote "all the way back to the parking lot!" Well done, Wild Intelligence. I'm sorry I doubted you. We'll be back 9 more times. 

The world needs more hippies that hang out in the woods. Today I include them in my gratitude circle. 

A Goat Note

There's a house at the front of our neighborhood that has a metal yard art goat in the front yard. Every day they move the goat somewhere else in the yard, so it looks like he's grazing and exploring all over. We love it. The neighbors love it. He's become our unofficial neighborhood mascot. The Boy wants to slow down so we can spot him every time we come and go.

Then, at the end of the school year the goat looked like this:

And THEN, one day when we drove by the goat had had BABIES:

We don't know the owners of the goat, but The Boy loves them. So one day last week he decided to write the goat a note. Never being one to shy away from shenanigans, I was all too happy to help. He told me what to say and I wrote his words. 

It says 

"Dear Goat, 

Do you like super heroes? I like super heroes. Are you a boy or a girl? What are your babies' names? Do you want one of my capes? Do you like gorillas too? Do you know the muffin man? Is your favorite animal a spider or a ghost or anything?"

We delivered the goat note, along with one of his spare capes. He was very clear that we wouldn't give the goats all his capes, because one day his brother might want to wear one. The Boy was pleased. I was pleased. I figured this was the end of the story. 

Then the next morning I was tagged in a post in our neighborhood Facebook page. It was from the goat owners. It included a picture of the goat in the cape, as well as a message: 

"Please tell The Boy we got his note and thanks for the cape for the goat and yes he likes Super Heroes....Batman and Superman and Spider-Man are his favorites. The goat is a boy named Billy. Have not named the babies yet...could you help us with that? The goat does know the muffin man.....he lives on Drury Lane......been there. Billy's favorite animal is a rabbit....you may even see a brown one in our yard running around. Have a great summer!" 

The Boy asked me to write back and submit the following names for the baby goats: My-oh, Tio, Sandman, and Goat. 

The world is really filled with some wonderful people. And goats. 

Today

This morning I took the boys to the grocery store, where I spent 1 million dollars on diapers and formula. BeYoYo fell asleep in the car so I brought him inside in his carseat and set The Boy up with a snack while I went back out to get the groceries. I might have left the door open.

I came back in and started prepping dinner before we had to leave for me to get to work. The Boy was enjoying his crackers and ants on a log (which he found hilarious), and then went to the bathroom. As I was cooking chicken I heard him crying from the bathroom. I found him with his pants wet around his ankles, distraught.

"The teetee wruined my pajama daaaay!" he said, wailing.
I tried not to laugh. I told him it was okay, accidents happen, and not to worry about it because he'd been doing what he was supposed to be doing.
"No I wasn't. (sniffle) I wasn't holding my penis because I was (sniffle) holding my cracka."
Then I noticed he'd also peed all over the floor. I told him not to eat in the bathroom, and went to get him fresh pj pants to save pajama day. He quickly began to feel better and went back to his ants on a log. I started mopping the bathroom. My phone bing-ed with a text notification, and it was someone from the church youth group starting a group text about how they should all live together next year. Bing. A response. Bing, another.

A few minutes later Prissy started barking. Being a beagle, sometimes she does this for no reason. I told her to hush and not to wake up BeYoYo. She didn't. I cooked, The Boy ate, she barked, I scolded, repeat. Bing. Then we saw a bird flying through the kitchen. He was panicked. He perched on the light fixture, then fluttered to the window sill, then landed in the pantry, then flew into the mirror. Prissy followed his every move, barking, running, jumping up on her hind legs, trying to get the bird, chasing, barking, repeat. The bird flew into the dining room, living room, landed, flew, perched, flew, panicked, flapped, flew, repeat. Priss was close behind. Meanwhile my phone bing-ed.

The Boy thought this was grand. He laughed and ran behind the two like a parade with each float getting larger and more delighted. I ran behind them all, yelling to please not wake up the baby. I corralled Prissy into our room so she wouldn't hurt the bird. Bing. We saw the bird dart under the sofa. I took a time out to call my friend Sarah, who knows a lot about birds. Bing. She didn't answer.

Me: If she doesn't answer you can leave a message telling her what's going on.
(Message beeps)
The Boy: What's going on?
Me: No, tell her what's going on with you.
The Boy: What's going on with me.
Me: No, tell her what's happening at your house.
The Boy: There's a burd in our house and Pwissy is twying to get it!

Sarah called right back and said her only thought was to open the door and try to shoo him out.
"Did I mention BeYoYo is sleeping right beside the door?"
Can you put him in your room? (I'm chopping chicken as I'm talking)
"No, Prissy is closed off in my room so she won't hurt the bird."
We decided to move BeYoYo somewhere and open the door to try to get the bird out.
"Did I mention I'm trying to prep dinner and I need to leave for work in ten minutes?"
She told me to keep her posted.

So The Boy and I went in the living room to investigate. I moved the couch out from the wall looking for the bird and exposing all manner of treasures behind it. The Boy and the bird were excited by every single thing, and The Boy said "My Wightning McQueen! My Wightning McQueen! My Wightning McQueen is behind the sofa! Can you get it?"  I told him I could not. There was also a baby Jesus back there. I said a prayer to the baby Jesus to keep us safe from the disease-carrying-bird. At some point the bird came out from under the sofa and was resting carefully just behind the door. I grabbed The Boy's family project from preschool- a poster about our family and started trying to shoo him out. He flew back into the living room, out of my sight. Bing.

Bird is in front of the car seat base, behind the door, above. 

Then I heard The Boy screaming. The disease bird has attacked him, baby Jesus! I just knew it. I ran to see what was wrong, and he stood in the dining room with a flashlight in his hand. I just looked at him as he cried. There was no bird attack. What was wrong? "My finga! My fingaaaaaa!" he wailed. Are you kidding me? The crank operated flashlight was stuck to his hand. The crank pinched him and wouldn't come off. I tried to uncrank it, which made him scream more. Bing.  I went to get lotion, but it was locked up in my room with the quarantined Prissy. I didn't dare open the door, she was already snorting at the threshold trying to sniff her way out. Bing. Bingbing. The Boy continued to cry. I texted my neighbor, but she wasn't home. I wrote back "K thNKs finger stuck in flashlight" with no further explanation. By now BeYoYo had been awakened by the bird or the crying or the barking, and he started to cry. Bing. I turned the volume off on my phone. By this time I was fairly certain there was going to be a blog post for today, and I took a picture for you.

I grabbed some baby vaporub from the living room and started using it to lubricate the flashlight. The Boy started to cry more, pulling his hand away from me, and pulling the flashlight off in the process. Success! I laughed out loud at the bizarrity of this day. It was now past time for us to leave. I told The Boy to put his boots on while I put the yet-prepped casserole in the fridge. BeYoYo fussed from his car seat while I threw everything from the kitchen in the fridge. "Can you give him his pacie?" I asked The Boy. "Shu" he responded, which is 3 year-old for 'sure'. He went into the hall to pacify his brother while I buzzed around the kitchen doing the bare minimum that needed attending to before leaving. "Mommy! Mommy!" he said proudly, "Come take a picture of BeYoYo! Come quick!" Ugh, we didn't have any time left.

I ran behind him to see what he was so excited about. He'd picked up BeYoYo's car seat and propped him up against the wall precariously. "Take a picture!"

Suddenly over his fussiness from being awoken by the bird/flashlight drama, BeYoYo thought it was amusing that he was trapped in his car seat, upright like a mummy in a sarcophagus.  Good day, King Tut. 

I instructed the boys to head toward the car and I loaded in two kids, a work bag, bag, diaper bag, two coats, a hat, and one "ants on a wog." I stopped in the cul-de-sac to pen a text to The Husband, who was in a meeting. I had 36 unread texts. Did I mention today is The Husband's first day working from home?

And it may be the last.

Plenty of Fish in the Sea

Scoot the beta fish died while The Boy and I were out of town a few weeks ago. He was on his last leg fin before we left, and wasn't acting like himself. While we were gone the Husband texted me "Scoot died for real this time."

This is the third Scoot that has crossed over into the Great Sea Beyond. Each time we've just quietly replaced him with a new Scoot and haven't mentioned it. The Boy didn't even get suspicious when Scoot 2 appeared with new brightly colored rocks and he was a little more red than purple. This time I thought surely it was time to finally discuss death. I figured the loss of a fish was a good, non-threatening place to start.

So, when we got back we sat The Boy on the counter and reminded him that Scoot had been sick and told him that Scoot died while we were gone. He looked serious, hugged my neck and said "that makes us SO SAD." Oh bless him. At the mention of sadness, The Husband interjected with "BUT, buddy, we can go to the store and you can pick out a NEW FISH!"

The Boy was intrigued. After his 15 seconds of grief he announced "I want an orange one and I wanna name it Dowffy (Dorothy) like Elmo's!" Easy come, easy go. Obviously death was not nearly as touchy as we expected.

So today we went to the pet store, The Boy went up to the counter and said to the cashier "can I have an orange fish pwease?" She sent for a fish guy, who scooped out the first orange fish he could grab. Turns out goldfish cost a quarter each, so I told him we could spring for two. That's how we roll. He asked why the fish guy put them in a bag, to which the fish guy responded "you can't carry a fish home in your hand." So there.

We paid for the fish and took them home. I told The Boy he could name them anything he wanted. So now we have two gold fish: poo poo and tee tee.

Patches Saves The Day

On Saturday night I got a call from my mom's burglar alarm company. They called to say her alarm was going off and they couldn't get in touch with her so they'd dispatched the police. I asked if I needed to do anything, and they said no. I tried to call my mom but couldn't get her. I immediately called my friend Heather, whose Husband, Marvin was the 2012 Sheriff Deputy of the Year.  I asked Marvin, 2012 Deputy of the Year,  if he had access to the PD scanner to see if anything was going on, but he didn't. Apparently the Sheriff's Department and PD have separate scanners. Marvin, 2012 Deputy of the Year, called me right back and said he'd called the dispatch and told them to step on it. Friends in high places.

The alarm company called back and said the police were requesting a key holder come out to the house. Uh oh. She couldn't give me anymore information. The Husband and I loaded The Boy in the car and headed the 30 minutes to her house. Every opening scene of CSI that I'd ever seen went through my head. What if there was an intruder? What if my mom wasn't okay? I tried to talk myself out of panicking. The alarm company called back and said the back door was "unsecured," which was why they were requesting us to come.

Marvin, 2012 Deputy of the Year, called back and asked if we'd heard anything. I told him the back door was unsecured and we were requested to come. He said that might mean someone had gotten in, and that's why they needed us. Gasp. It was raining, and I was flying down the road to my childhood home, unsure what I would find when I got there. This road brought me home for holidays during college, and took me to the mall when I was in high school. The wipers sang out shish swish, shish swish. The Husband was in the seat beside me, asking if I wanted him to drive. I didn't. The Boy was in the back seat saying "Ha ha ha! Happy How-ween!" over and over again.  We're a little mixed up on the holidays. I told him we were going to check on his Pammie, which he pronounces "Mammie."  He sat in his seat, smiled, and said "Mammie. Mammie. Mammie. Ha ha ha. Happy How-ween."

It occurred to me that my mom might be at her sunday school Christmas party. That was a good sign, because if there was an intruder she wouldn't be hurt. I had The Husband call Heather because her mom is in the same class. "Ha ha ha. Happy how-ween." The cell connection was spotty, but she called back to say she couldn't get in touch with her mom either. I had The Husband check facebook to see if anyone had posted about going to that party. "Ha ha ha. Happy how-ween. Mammie? Mammie?" Yes, we're going to see Pammie.

I flew down my mom's road like I had so many times as a teenager, only this time the urgency was about a possible danger and not a curfew. "Happy how-ween." I saw the police car in the cul-de-sac and pulled up beside it. It was empty so I parked and headed up the driveway. I heard a voice say "you could've parked up here so you didn't have to get the baby out in the rain." Always suspicious, I said "how did you know I have a baby?!" He replied "because I just heard you say 'get the baby' when you got out of the car." Oh. Good one. My mom's car wasn't home. I could hear her dog, Patches, barking inside.

Patches is useless. He is afraid of everything. He's afraid to go outside to pee. He's afraid of bugs. He's afraid of cellphones vibrating.  He doesn't like people. He doesn't get along with other dogs. He can tolerate about 3 minutes of being petted and then he'll jet upstairs to have some alone time. If you leave him outside he'll jump the fence and run away. He gets nervous and chews on his skin, creating hot spots. Between his Prozac and Benedryl he gets 8 pills a day. He spends his days standing in my mom's shower stall. Not kidding.

The officer explained that when he arrived the back door was locked, but ajar. When he went to open it to investigate, Patches jumped up against the door and slammed it shut! The officer couldn't get back in, which is why he called us. He didn't feel like anyone was in the house but wanted to make sure. Not knowing the officer was a good guy, Patches saved the house from a potential burglar! We unlocked the door and looked around the house and didn't see any signs of any intruders. Whew! All was safe and sound. The Boy was excited to be at his Pammie's house, and he pointed to her Christmas tree and said "Mick Mick?", meaning he wanted to see the Mick Mick ornament.  Mick Mick was one of my mom's favorite first grade students in the 70s and she still has an ornament with his picture on it that she gets out every year. 

The Boy was excited about all the action. He ran in circles around Pammie's house. He looked at the officer and said "Mammie?" Obviously the officer didn't know how to respond to my child calling out a slave's name. I said "Yes, we're at Pammie's house." I emphasized the P in Pammie so that he wouldn't think we got our kid to call his grandmother Mammie. Then The Boy said to the officer "Mick Mick?" I'm not sure why the officer wouldn't know the nickname (mickname?) of my mom's first grade student from 40 years ago, or know that an ornament with his picture hangs on her tree, or understand that The Boy wanted him to take him to it. He said "Yeah" in that dismissive way we talk to kids when we don't know what they're saying, and then showed us pictures of his little boy.  We determined that the house was safe, that Patches is a good guard dog, and that we could all go home. We petted Patches and told him good job protecting the place, and we headed out. I'm sure he headed to his shower stall. 

We put pajamas on The Boy and loaded him in the car. We sighed huffs of relief and turned the car toward home, knowing he would fall asleep in a matter of minutes. On the ride home The Boy was apparently too excited to sleep. He recapped our adventure. "Mammie!" Yes we went to Pammie's house. "'Atches?" Yes, Patches saved the day. Next was "Mick Mick!" Yes, we saw Mick Mick. From time to time he'd throw in a "mama" or a "dada" for good measure. He'd been quiet for some time and we thought he'd finally gone to sleep.  Just as we were convinced he was out we heard "Ha ha ha. Happy how-ween!" Happy How-ween indeed. 

Prissy and the Chipmunks

I have to say that I love our dog. She is sweet and loving and energetic and snuggly. She tolerates The Boy pinching her face and pulling her tail, and she protects our home against any invaders or any innocent soul who walks down the sidewalk.   She and I rescued each other nearly 7 years ago and I truly love her.

And also she drives me crazy. Any time she has anything she considers to have any value she walks around the house whining, looking for a place to bury it. It doesn't matter if it's a bone or a chew toy or one of The Boy's stuffed animals, she can't keep her anxiety to herself. She'll continue until you take the valuable away from her or until you put it in her bed and cover it with a rag and pretend you can't see it. She'll then take the rag and cover it over and over until she feels it's sufficiently hidden. Hidden from whom, I'm not sure, but this is what we do.

Last night I was sitting in the floor of our bedroom, trying out the new newsprint nail polish trend when she came in and out of the room whining. Whine. whine. whine. I didn't even look up. Usually we ignore this behavior as long as we can. On this particular occasion I was able to ignore it for a long time because I was concentrating on my nails. I have to take advantage of every second The Boy is asleep, you know. Whine. whine. whine. whine. whine. whine.

Enter The Husband. "What are you doing sitting in the floor?" He asked. "Working on my acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize" I answered, because it was clear what I was doing by the nail polish in my hand and my pedicure kit sprawled on the floor. Whine. whine. whine.
Me: See what she has, she won't be quiet.
Whine. whine. whine.
Husband: Uh oh.
Me: What is it this time?
Husband: A chipmunk.
Me: Gasp. A CHIPMUNK?
Husband: Yep. You might not want to come over here.
At this point Prissy gets excited because we have finally caught on to the obvious good news that she has caught and killed a chipmunk and brought it inside our house to show off. She starts running in tiny circles in our room. I realize at this point that not only has she killed a chipmunk and brought it into my house, but she has been carrying it around in her mouth for the last twenty minutes, dragging it's little chipmunk claws all over the floor that The Boy crawls on with the hands that he eats with. 
Husband: No, Prissy. Drop it! Get her outside.
Me: How am I supposed to get her outside when there's a chipmunk?
Husband: I guess you pick her up.
Me: But my nails are wet! Come on, girl, let's go out. Luckily she minded me. 
Husband: Where's the dust pan?
Me: Last time I saw it it was in the recycling bin.
Husband: Why was it in the recycling bin?
Me: The Boy put it in there.
Husband: sigh.

Apparently he'd just emptied the recycling outside and had accidentally tossed the dust pan out too. He went outside to retrieve the dust pan so he could dispose of the chipmunk in our room. I'm assuming he dug a hole, fashioned a tiny casket out of an oatmeal canister, said a prayer for his family, and gently placed him in the ground, but I didn't ask. 


Earlier this week Prissy had treed who I can only assume is this same chipmunk up the side of our house. The top of the window screen was loose because we don't live in a Better Homes and Gardens magazine, so the chipmunk got in the screen. The boy and I looked at him from the inside, and The Boy tried to pet him through the glass. He also opened his mouth against the glass, in what I hope was an attempt to kiss and not eat the rodent. I put Prissy in her crate so the chipmunk could retreat to safety and this is what I get for trying to intervene with nature. I can't make this picture turn the right way, so turn your head to the right:

 
A little while later:
Me: Eeek! There's a spider on the wall. I think it's a bad guy, he's got a design on his back. That's bad.
Husband: Where?
Me: Right there. He just went under that picture frame.
Husband: (slamming our framed wedding pictures against the wall to try to kill the spider) I don't see him.
Me: He had something on his back. That's bad, right?
Husband: I don't know. Spider came into sight. No, he's fine.
Me: Well, aren't you going to kill it?
Husband: He's not hurting anyone. You were sad that the chipmunk died but you want me to kill a spider?
Me: Haven't you ever heard of arachnophobia? Nobody ever suffers from Chipmunkophobia.

A Little Squirrely

Last week I came home from work and my mom said "Prissy's got something." Not surprised, I asked "pacie or bottle?" My mom gave me her serious look and said "More like squirrel or chipmunk." I went outside to investigate, and the Prissster had a baby teenage squirrel in her mouth. It was still alive. "Prissy, no!" I shouted. She rolled her eyes at me. I told her to go get in her crate, so she picked up the squirrel and headed inside. NOOO! "Drop it!" I yelled. She complied, and went inside to her crate.

I checked on the squirrel, who wasn't moving. My mom and The Boy were safely inside. I'd asked my mom to stay late because we're refinancing our house and an attorney was coming at 6:30 to close. It was 6:15. I went to get a shovel to move the squirrel to a safer location. I tried to scoop him up but he was too alive for that. He slowly scootched away from the shovel. Too dead to run and too alive to die, we had a dilemma. I didn't want him to suffer but I couldn't bring myself to kill him. He was making little squeaking noises. Eeek. Eeek. I left him alone.

When The Husband came home I showed him said squirrel. He said he'd kill it. What a brave man! I watched from inside as he carried the shovel to the back of the yard and gently tossed something furry into the brush. Ding dong. The attorney was here. I let her in and offered her some pizza. She had the efficiency and the personality of an ant farm. She did not even smile at The Boy. I hollered at the Husband that she was here. He came inside.

Husband: There's nothing wrong with that squirrel.
Me: Except for that he was on the edge of death.
Husband: He's fine.
Me: Well Prissy had him folded in half, slinging him around. That can't feel good.
Husband: He's fine. 
Me: What did you do with it?
Husband: I put him in a tree so Prissy couldn't get him.
Mom: Was he making any noise?
Husband: Well he was saying Eeek eeek but he's fine.
Attorney: I'm Somer. Nice to meet you. Should we get started? She did not shake the Husband's hand. 

The closing was anti-climactic. We signed a bunch of papers. The Boy jabbered loudly. Somer did not smile. Somer left and The Husband went to check on the squirrel. He was still in the tree where he'd been placed to rehabilitate.

Three days later I was taking the trash out the front door when I saw the same squirrel in the carport. "You're alive!" I told him. I got closer, but he didn't move. He just clung to the brick, half on and half off. "Go play!" I said. He didn't move. I went about taking the trash out and he never moved. My sister was at our house so she came out to see him.

Me: Come look.
Sister: Aww!
Me: Be careful. Don't get too close. Squirrels have rabies.
Sister: Really? All squirrels have rabies?
Me: Yes.

The Husband stopped cutting grass to see what we were doing.

Me: He must be hurt.
Sister: He's not moving at all.
Husband: He's just afraid because y'all are staring at him.
Me: Prissy had him and now he's hurt.
Husband: He's fine. He made it from the back yard all the way over here to the carport.
Me: But it took him three days!
Sister, to The Husband: Can I see your work gloves?
Husband: No you cannot. Squirrels have rabies.
Me: See? I told you.
Husband: Call one of your hippie friends to see if they want a squirrel.
Me: Who wants a squirrel? I'm calling animal control.

I looked up the number and called animal control. At the same time my sister was calling her friend Charley.

Animal control: Clarke County Animal Control
Me: Hello. I have a baby squirrel that my dog got and I think he's hurt but he's alive. He's not really a baby, more of a teenager. He has fur and everything.
Animal control: Okay. Our regular dispatcher doesn't get wildlife. You'll have to page the weekend dispatcher to come and get it. To do that you have to call 911 and they'll contact her.
Me: 911? This isn't really an emergency.
Sister: I'm talking to Charley. She has a squirrel, she might want it.
Animal control: That's our process.
Me: And will she pick it up or tell me how to take care of it?
Sister: Charley wants it! Her mom said okay.
Animal control: Umm, I'm not sure. Let me get your number and I'll have someone call you back.
Sister: Charley wants it!
Me: No, that's okay. I can call 911.
Husband: What's going on?
Me: Charley's taking it.
Husband: Does Charley's mom know?
Sister: Yes. They have a pet squirrel and she said she can rehab it. She said they like McDonald's french fries.
Me: Honey, get the squirrel trap! We don't have any french fries.
Husband: Here, just use the dog crate. He scooped him up in the dog crate and shut the door.
Me: That'll traumatize him.
Husband: He's fine.
Sister: She also said they like the ends of tomatoes.
Me; Ends of tomatoes?
Sister: Yes, she said to keep them hydrated.

Now all this excitement was about more than The Boy could contain. He bounced and bounced and grinned at the squirrel. I wouldn't let him get too close, you know because they all have rabies, but I'm pretty sure he would have kissed it if he could have. We chopped off the end of a tomato and put it in the dog crate with the teenage squirrel and my sister dropped it off at Charley's. I was proud to have given it a good home, although it promptly died. 

Happy Valentine's Day and such. Here's a conversation that happened this weekend.
Me: Husband, Know what I'd like for Valentine's day?
Husband: We don't celebrate Valentine's.
Me: I know, but it's free.
Husband: What?
Me: Would you puh-lease empty out that dead bird out of the bird feeder?
Husband: It might already be gone.
Me: Did you already empty it?
Husband. No.
Me: Then who did?
Husband: Maggots! Happy Valentine's Day, hon.

Ain't he sweet?

In unrelated news, my jaw has been hurting for two weeks. We have a big fundraiser at work this weekend (shameless plug: click to learn about Mardi Gras Athens) so I thought it was stress-related TMJ. It started as a pain in my jaw hinge and evolved into pain in my ear and all down my jaw line. I couldn't even eat. So I went to the dentist yesterday. You should know I've been with the same dentist for more than twenty years. He pulled a baby tooth when I was little, took out my wisdom teeth, fixed my front tooth after a tragic swing dance accident in high school, did 3 subsequent root canals, and coached me on how to super glue a crown back in when I was studying abroad in Buenos Aires and wary of going to an Argentine dentist. We've got history.

Dr. P. worked me in. I took The Boy to mother-in-law's work, with plans for my mom to pick him up there if it took more than an hour. I took my top retainer from the orthodontist that keeps my teeth from shifting and my bottom splint that prevents me from grinding at night. Turns out I needed my jaw realigned, presumably from grinding. I could be dramatic here, but it wasn't painful; pretty anticlimactic. In fact, it was nice to relax in the chair for an hour.

 The good news is that my jaw is getting better. I got a new top retainer, one of those clear plastic ones that doesn't have any metal. He also readjusted my splint so that it actually fits and will prevent me from grinding.  The bad news is that I have to wear both of them all the time for a few days to help keep my jaw aligned. The bottom one is large and uncomfortable and gives me a listhp and won't let my teeth touch at all. It's really sexy. Here's our initial exchange:

Dr. P: What's going on here?
Me: My jaw hurts here, and here, and when I lay down, here.
Dr. P: Have you been grinding?
Me: Probably.
Dr. P: Open for me.
Me: (Opening) Hurts.
Dr. P: Looks like your jaw's all out of whack.
Dr. P: Have you been wearing your splint?
Me: No. It's uncomfortable and I always take it out in the night.
Dr. P: Do you have any idea how long you keep it in?
Me: No, I'm asleep. 
Dental Hygienist, Kelly: She brought it with her today.
Dr. P: We'll look.
Me: I have been wearing my retainer from Dr. Waugh. It keeps me from grinding.
Dr. P: (Skeptical) How?
Me: My teeth can't touch when I wear it.
Dr. P: Can you wear them both?
Me: I just found out I can. But I don't. 
Kelly: It hits on her incisors so she's been wearing it instead.  
Dr. P: So you've been using it to try to prevent grinding?
Me: Yes.
Dr. P: Do you wear it every night?
Me: No. I just started wearing it again when it started hurting.
Dr. P: Do you have it?
Me: Yes....But it's broken. My dog ate it.
Dr. P: The dog ate the retainer?
Me: Yes. And broke it. And then I brushed it and tried to sanitize it in the microwave. And it warped. 
Dr. P.: So basically you've got two retainers that don't fit and aren't doing what they're supposed to.
Me: Right. 
Kelly handed it to Dr. P.
Dr. P: This is pitiful! Leigh Ellen, you can't put metal in the microwave. That's why it warped, it pulled away from the metal here. Next time soak it in some Listerine!
Me: I didn't think about it. 
Front office staff: Leigh Ellen's mother is here to check on her.
Dr. P: Her mother?
Front office staff: Yes. With the baby.  (I figured she was on her way back from picking him up)
Dr. P:  Ha! (over his shoulder) We're finishing up. Should be another 20 minutes or so.  Tell her it'll be four more hours.
Dr. P (to me):  Now your mom's trying to hurry you out of here, baby must be fussy. You're mom'll be in here tomorrow and I'll be fitting her for a splint for all this stress you're causing!

I have to go back to the dentist for him to check me again on Thursday to make sure everything is still in place. I can't wait to tell him I've already broken my new retainer too!