The first time it happened, I had to tackle her. I was pregnant, with bulbous belly, tromping around the back yard with a spoon in one hand and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in the other. I took her down on the small hill next to our house.

Once I had her trapped underneath me I didn’t really know what to do. How would I remove the bottle cap, pour peroxide into the spoon and shove it into the mouth of a 65 pound, squirming Labrador? I did it, but it wasn’t pretty; nor was what came out of her stomach about 10 minutes later. Have you seen The Exorcist? Yeah, that.

Thirteen years ago this was a frequent occurrence around our house. Our dog, Blue, eating something she shouldn’t (breast pads, underwear, chicken bones, a 25 lb. frozen turkey, etc.) and me, sometimes, having to make her throw it back up before it did any damage.

Like the time my in-laws were coming to town to celebrate their 50th anniversary. About two hours before their arrival, I felt the need to go to the mall and buy a new piece of furniture. I’m rational like that. While I was gone, Blue snatched an enormous, solid-chocolate bunny off the far-reaches of the kitchen counter and ate the entire thing. Happy Easter!

When I discovered this, I did what I was used to doing; I put a piece of cheese in the bottom of a bowl and covered it with peroxide. DO NOT DO THIS! Using a spoon had never worked well, so this had become my altered method. Usually, by getting to the cheese, she would ingest just enough peroxide to make her vomit. It was an extremely scientific measurement, exactly not at all.

Now, we don’t go buying fancy schmancy furniture around here. Oh, no! None of that solid wood stuff for us. If you can’t put it together with an Allen wrench or a Phillips-head screwdriver, well you can just forget it. With, roughly 30 minutes until our family would be here, I left Blue outside with her bowl while I sweat and struggled with a particleboard end table. At the very least, I have my priorities in order.

I went back out 15 minutes later to find Blue had eaten the cheese and finished every last drop of peroxide. Every. Last. Drop.

Remember Willy Wonka’s chocolate river? Yeah, that. Except that after the chocolate stopped, Blue kept retching. I’m not even kidding; I thought I had killed my dog and that she was going to throw up her own stomach. If you ever see one of your neighbors running around her back yard chasing after her dog saying, “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Also, please hurry, because company will be here soon!” then you’ll know just what I looked like.

And, last week, when our young Lab, Daisy, found 1/2 a sheet of chocolate cake in a neighbor’s yard, and ate to her heart’s desire, we got to relive the experience.

Lucky for her, I’ve learned how to use a syringe.

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If you recall, I had a little experience in Manhattan a few months ago with some prominent bloggers and the former Editor in Chief of Redbook Magazine, Stacy Morrison, wherein I made myself look like a bumpkin in a sushi restaurant. Stacy is now the Editor in Chief of BlogHer, which not only makes her my colleague, but also the colleague with whom I bonded over flaming nostrils.

Stacy sent me a package the other day and this is a video of my son sampling what I received. Before you go commenting and telling me that I’m an evil mother, you should know that I tested it first. I also believe in letting my kids try new things, because you never know if they’ll like it. Unless, of course, that new thing is bourbon.

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Since before Christmas, and my sister’s cancer diagnosis, when my mother-in-law was in the midst of her cancer treatments and a friend’s dad was fighting the same ravaging disease, I have not had it in me to write. I don’t know why.

Sure, it’s logical that when so many people you care about have been irrevocably touched by an awful disease that it’s hard to let your mind stray far enough to find words, but I have written through a lot here; more than I even care to rehash (or link to).

While I doubt that anyone would mind if I needed time to sort out this lack of creativity, I would love it if I could find it inside myself to write something for them. A tribute, a rally cry, something to make them smile…anything. Instead, I sit here and stare at the wall in a quasi-funk, feeling sorry for everyone. I hate that. They would hate it too.

But, I feel like my muse is hooked up to a chemo pump and my mojo is being burned away by daily radiation. I know that people I love are hurting and I can’t pretend otherwise.

This state of being miserable just isn’t me. I’m not used to being depressed. I’m always anxious, yes, but not downright sad. This has to change right now. I can’t expect them to put up a good fight when I’m not doing my best to do the same.

So, I’m making a promise to stop this nonsense. It doesn’t do any good to stare at the wall and wish things were different. If that were the case, I’d wish everyone was healthy and that I was in Fiji with a raft and a fancy drink and I would see my muse walking toward me on the beach with a Macbook in hand. Swoon.

Tomorrow is a new day full of hope and opportunity and I’m not going to waste it. It’s the least I can do. For them.

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1. You wake up to find random plates and bowls on your nightstand.

2. Your daughter takes the candy from her Christmas stocking and hides it in her room.

3. Your husband asks, “Did you eat my Skittles?” Yes, I think I did.

4. Your husband asks, “If you only ate a banana, then why is the peanut butter on the counter?”

5. The bin of recycling is full of cereal boxes that you don’t remember emptying.

6. Your waistline disappears.

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