This past Sunday morning, my husband was off running 26.2 miles, which meant that I had to make my own coffee and walk the dogs.  Um…rude!

The coffee making wasn’t too bad because I have one of those single-cup thingies now, which means I didn’t have to do much other than push one button.  I wish you could push a button for picking up dog poop.

But, the real challenge in walking the dogs is that we have one that just turned 13 and another one that just turned 2.  Their energy levels are slightly different.  So are their joints.  While one could easily clear a fence, the other one can barely stand up.

My husband is brave enough to take the dogs off of their leashes at the park near our house, despite Daisy (the young dog) once sending a lady over her handlebars when she ran out of the woods right onto a bike path.  And the fact that, just last week, she rolled in a maggot-infested, dead rat.  Side note to the hawk who drops rodents from the sky around here:  Pick smaller prey.

I don’t particularly like dealing with angry bikers with head injuries nor do I want to wash maggots off of my dog…again…so, on Sunday, I took Daisy out in the yard with a ball and a ball-chucker to work off some excess energy that couldn’t be worked off with a regular walk.  Also, thank you to the person who invented the tool that allows dog owners to NOT touch the slobbery ball.  I love you.  Really.

The entire time that Daisy was playing fetch, Blue (the old dog) was sitting at the front window, whining.  I watched her pacing and crying for 20 minutes.  I felt so bad, that after I took Daisy inside, I took Blue out for some one-on-one time.

Blue immediately picked up a big stick and pranced around the yard to show me that, despite being 13 years old, she’s still got it and I was quick to tell her so.  There was a lot of her looking proud and a lot of me saying, “Ohhhh!  Blue has a big stick!  She’s a big dog!”.  And, also a lot of my neighbors looking at me funny.

Then she dropped the stick and started tearing at the grass with her teeth to show me, again, that she’s still got it.  I was happy to see her spunk.

A few seconds later, she found a tennis ball laying in the grass and brought it to me.  I looked into her eyes and saw the puppy that I picked out 13 years ago, this month, when she was barely four weeks old and her head made her so top-heavy that she fell over.  I asked, “Are you sure, girl?  You want me to throw the ball?”  She looked back at me, panting, her ears perked, just waiting for me to tell her to “go get it”.

I threw the ball to the back of the yard and watched as she clumsily trotted after it.  Her front legs ran while her back legs stayed stiff, but she gave it her best effort.

Until she tripped on a tree root.

She landed in the mud with one hind leg facing forward and the other hind leg trapped behind her.  She was doing the equivalent of the doggie-splits and couldn’t get up.

I ran to her, clasped my hands under her belly and lifted her back to her feet.

Then I crouched down in front of her and rubbed her neck, nuzzled my face close to hers and said, “See, old girl…you’ve still got it.  At least Daisy can’t do that.”

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While a lot of our friends are off enjoying Florida sunshine for Spring Break, my family is planted firmly in Ohio…well, as firmly as one can plant thyself when it’s raining two inches a day.

We have been using this time to catch up on doctor’s appointments and accomplish some much needed tasks around the house.  You have beaches and sand?  We have waiting rooms and window cleaning.  So there!

Yesterday, my 12 year old daughter stumbled out of bed and declared, “We should tear out the living room carpet today.”

And because all 12 year old, sleep-deprived kids make rational declarations, I agreed.

We have been wanting to tear up the wall-to-wall carpet for years.  We had it installed in 1998, before we bought our first puppy and before we had our first child.  At that time it was a very light, off-white color.  Because, apparently, new homeowners in their late 20’s are pretty rational too.

By the time our son was born in 2002, the carpet was looking pretty bad despite bi-annual cleaning.  When our boy, the one known as Mr. Reflux, started crawling, small spots would appear everywhere from his constant battles with stomach contents.  It wasn’t pretty, people.

So, yesterday, I took the advice of the 12 year old, grabbed a crowbar, pliers (oh my, the staples!), work gloves and a box cutter and went to work on our 13′ x 23′ living room carpet.

I knew there would be spots of paint on the hardwood, because when we renovated the house we painted the ceilings last and by that time we were pretty sloppy and just wanted to be done.  But, despite the paint, I was pretty happy with the condition of the floor.

We started in one corner and by the time we reached the opposite corner of the room nearly six hours later, we were exhausted.  My arm was so tired from slicing the carpet into strips for the trash men to take that I could barely grip anything, but we saw the light at the end of the tunnel and fought through the pain in our hands, knees and backs.

Until we tore up the last piece of carpet to find this.

And, suddenly, we weren’t seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, but rather the light from the basement laundry room.

I think this looks like a good place for a plant…don’t you?

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I first met Casey at a meetup in Indianapolis, in 2008.  It was April 24, 2008…almost exactly three years ago.  Funny, but it feels like I’ve known her my entire life.

She was just how I had pictured her; kind, intelligent, funny, red-headed and adorable.  She, however, was shocked that the Momo Fali she met that night wasn’t a 300 lb. Samoan.

That trip to Indianapolis turned out to be one I will never forget.  And, not in a good way.  I spent most of the evening in tears, worried sick about my son.  I will never forget getting off the phone with my husband and falling against the wall in a sloppy, sobbing heap then looking up to see Casey standing there.  The hug that she gave me, from one stranger to another, got me through the night.

I came to find out that the hug was indicative of how much Casey gives of herself.  She embodies strength, honesty and friendship and since that first meeting, I have hugged her when she cried, she hugged me when I cried AGAIN, she has seen me in my bathing suit and I have arranged the marriage of my son and her first-born child.  For real.

She has openly shared her battle with depression and has probably saved some people in the process.  I respect Casey for that and for so much more.

As she prepares for the birth of her second child, I want her to know that I’m thinking of her, I’m proud of her and I’m so glad that she’s my friend.  Pregnancy has not been easy for Casey, but she has managed to endure.

But, still…I hate her a little because next to her, I really do look like a 300 lb. Samoan.

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My husband is turning 40 this week.  I am sharing this with you because I am still 39 and I like to rub it in.  He is 45 days older than me and don’t you forget it.

We have spent the better part of our adult lives together and while we were maturing (and, oh my, given the amount of margaritas I drank on Saturday night, I am still deep in that process) we renovated a house, bought a couple of dogs, started a business and had two premature babies.

This man I married has seen me catheterized, watched my stomach get cut open twice to have tiny children removed and still loves me despite the fact that my thighs are bigger than his.

He has stayed at my bedside more times than I can count, held my hand as our son was taken to surgery over and over again and he has brought me the same flowers every spring for the last 16 years.  He also has coffee waiting for me every, single day.  Bonus!

He has always worked hard so that I could, first, be a stay-at-home-mom and care for our daughter and, second, be a stay-at-home-mom/nurse/therapist/pharmacist/advocate/insurance-wrangler for our son.  And, for the past few years he has plugged away at work so that I could blog (yeah, read that again) and take the time to find full-time work that feeds my passion.  I love my job and I couldn’t have found it without his support.

Though, I do hate sitting next to him on a plane.  Well, except for that one time when I took a Xanax for my fear of flying and he bought me two vodka and cranberries to chase it.  In that particular case, it was the best plane ride EVER.  So, he has that going for him.

He has one, very annoying habit…okay, maybe two or three…and I blame his seven sisters for the fact that he knows exactly how to make a woman angry.  Thanks, ladies, for getting him warmed up for me.

But, despite that harsh, grating noise he makes when he clears his throat, I’m happy that his parents didn’t stop at child #8.

Happy 40th birthday, Dado Fali.  I’m really glad that you were born.

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