My husband cringes when I tell gross stories about our dog. But, I feel it is my duty as a dog owner. These beasts don’t stay adorable puppies forever, and people who are thinking about getting one should know the truth. It’s the equivalent of having a baby and thinking it’s all about the snuggling and cooing, when it’s really about spit-up and projectile poop.

Our dog has bad, bad gas. The type of silent flatulence that makes you want to curl up in the fetal position and whimper, “Tell me when it’s over.” She emits fumes which make the leaves on the houseplants shrivel up and die.

They used to smell like chicken. Rotten chicken. But, lately she’s been eating grass…a lot. I fear we’re going to get a contact buzz, because now her farts smell like the seats near the rafters of a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert. Next thing you know, she’ll be wearing a tie-dyed collar and doggie moccasins.

If you’re thinking of getting a puppy, do yourself a favor and invest in a gas mask…and don’t say I didn’t warn you.

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My five year old son can predict the future, but only when we’re in the car.

The first time it happened, it completely freaked me out. We were running errands when he piped up from the back seat and said, “Mom, the phone is ringing at home.”

I replied, “Uh…well, maybe. We don’t know if the phone is ringing, because we’re in the car.”

Then my cell phone rang.

It was my husband and I immediately asked him if he had just called the house, and he said, “Yes”. I was in shock.

The second time he used his sixth sense, we were driving home from an occupational therapy appointment when he said, “Grandma and Grandpa are coming over.”

I told him that, in fact, they were not coming over. Grandma and Grandpa live two hours away.

When we got home, guess who called? Grandma and Grandpa were going to be in town in a couple of days and wanted to stop by.

Those two events were just happenstance, right? Just weird luck. So the kid is good at guessing…it’s nothing more.

But yesterday, I took him to a doctor’s appointment for his finger and it happened again. A few weeks ago, he let a stranger get too close to him while he was playing and I lectured him about it. Since then, he has been very frightened of people he doesn’t know. (Note to self: Ease up on the lectures.)

So when we pulled into the doctor’s parking lot, I was surprised when he looked out the window at a man standing in front of the building and said, “Mom, that man is nice.”

I said, “He probably is. He’s a stranger, but because I’m with you it’s okay if you want to say hi.”

Say hi? He gave the poor guy a complete run-down of his missing fingertip.

And, when we were walking away the man shouted, “Ma’am! Thank you for letting me speak to your son today. Thank you for sharing his smile, and yours.”

Today I’m taking my boy to the drive-thru carry out, where he will fill out his very first lottery ticket.

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This is Tapper. Tapper is a finger splint, and is a new addition to our family. He is also our five year old son’s constant companion. So far, Tapper has gone with us to a First Communion and to a wedding rehearsal where he started acting up. As a matter of fact, if you asked the bride, she’d probably tell you that Tapper was quite a train wreck.

But on the wedding day, Tapper’s new Mommy discovered Benadryl. And, Benadryl made Tapper happy…and a little loopy. Suddenly, Tapper and son were all smiles and they thought the lights were very pretty. Did you know you can carry a ring bearer’s pillow like a football?

Today Tapper has one more party to attend, and he will probably spend the day tapping tables, and chairs, and people’s knees, and my glasses, and the bridge of my nose. If all goes well, we’ll be saying goodbye to him in 12 days, and this Mommy hopes she’ll never, ever hear tapping again.

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Yesterday afternoon, I drove to Indianapolis with a new friend to meet the lovely Bossy. As I do every time I’m away, I left instructions for the babysitter, a list of things to do for my daughter, and a note to my husband to read when he got home from work.

I made dinner and put it in the Crock Pot and straightened up the house. All my ducks were in a row. Until the moment we got to our hotel.

I barely had time to put my bag down, when my cell phone rang. On the other end was my nine year old daughter, screaming hysterically, “Mommy!!! Mommy!!! MOMMY!!!” When she finally took a breath, she was able to tell me her brother was badly hurt. I didn’t know what happened, but I did know that my daughter would not have such a reaction if it wasn’t serious.

There I was, three hours from home and my kids needed their Mommy. “Hello guilt? It’s me, Momo.” All I could do was urgently tell her to call her Dad (who luckily was on his way home from work). I hung up and phoned the sitter’s parents, who live two doors away. Then I freaked out sat and waited a few minutes before calling back to find out my son’s finger had been slammed in a door, and that the tip of it was gone.

All of these wonderful bloggers had to watch me sit with clenched teeth and buttcheeks, in anticipation of my husband’s report from the hospital. Once I drank four Coronas talked to my son on the phone, after his skin and fingernail had been stitched back on, I was able to relax…just a little.

I intentionally left this out of focus to hide my swollen, puffy eyes, and mascara which had dripped onto my shirt. That’s me in the middle, with the fake smile.

After two hours of sleep, we got up at 4:45 this morning, to get home to my son. And, even though my neighbors and my husband cleaned up most of the blood. I found this where they peeled his skin from the door jamb.

And lots of splatter marks on the wall…

…and this on my son’s broken finger.

I’m never leaving home again.

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