Click.

I had just given birth a few hours earlier to our long-awaited tiny princess in a family full of boys, and they had taken her back to the nursery to clean her, dress her, and do whatever else they do.  They had finally moved me into my room, and I was eager to spend some quiet time gazing at that perfect little face and running my fingers through the gobs of dark hair I remembered seeing in the chaotic first minutes after she was born. Tom had left not long before to pick up the eager big brothers so they could meet the newest addition to the family. We lived about an hour away from the hospital, so I knew that I had some time before they returned, but I wanted my baby.  What on earth was taking them so long to bring her back?!

Not ever one to be pushy about anything, I had waited and waited. Too eager to wait any longer, I finally called down.

After I hung up, the tears immediately started flowing – nothing like post-partum hormones and the abrupt, unexpected news that your baby is sick – to bring on what seemed like a never-ending cascade.

In the meantime, Tom still had no idea what was going on, as he had no cell phone. He and the boys arrived to find me dissolved into a sniveling mess, just as the pediatrician finally showed up to talk to us. Somehow, Savannah had caught some sort of nasty infection, and had quit breathing, turning blue on the unpleasant nursery worker. I burst into tears again.

The next 10 days were probably the hardest of our lives. She spent most of those days in an incubator, tiny oxygen tube up her nose, and IV needles poked in every place imagineable: arms, hands, feet, and even the top of her head at one point.

“She’s such a fighter!” the nurses kept reassuring us, and fight she did.

When she was finally well enough to come home, we were greatly relieved. I had taken my childrens’ health for granted before this, but never again. Unfortunately for us, she was the crankiest baby, screaming for hours on end, and she hated to be held. Whether it was from being constantly poked and prodded from the minute she was born or just that she’d inherited her dad’s temperament , I don’t know, but there were moments where Tom and I would have gladly returned her to the rock we always joked that we found her under!

It doesn’t seem possible that tomorrow is that beautiful girl’s 14th birthday. The years since that rocky beginning have been filled with laughter and tears, sometimes all within the same moment, but I’ve never taken a single day for granted.

How’d we get from here…

…to here, so quickly?!

Happy Birthday, Nanna-girl! I love you more… <3

Several years ago, my co-worker and I had been doing our usual Monday-morning grousing about how quickly the weekend flew by and we didn’t even remember what we’d done other than the cleaning, and the laundry, and the grocery shopping, and, and, and…

Any mom, working or not, knows exactly what I’m talking about.

Side note: I’ve never really understood the whole TGIF thing, because the work doesn’t end when you walk out the door at 5:00 pm Friday. In my experience, you just trade one boss for a handful of short little tyrants who’re way more demanding than the one at work! And don’t even get me started on the pay…

Anyway, somehow we came up with the idea of taking off a day each week in the summer to spend with our kids. Clearing it with our boss, I chose Mondays and she chose Fridays, and a tradition was born. For the last 6 or 7 years, my Junes and Julys have been blissfully Monday-Work-Free. The first year or two, all went according to plan, and the kids and I usually managed to find something fun to do together: hiking, trips to the local swimming pool, mini golf, or small excursions to places outside the valley.

But then…

Then the boys grew old enough that it was no longer cool to spend time with their mommy. Oh – they were happy enough to take my money and have me drop them off somewhere with their friends – but don’t even think that you’re invited along, mom! So Savannah and I did things together, just the two of us, which was good too. More years have passed, the boys are now all out on their own, and Savannah has now entered that stage where she loves to go do things – but with her friends, not me. Again, I’m welcome to give money and a ride, but otherwise I’m just dead weight!

For months I’ve been debating whether or not to even take my Monday’s off this summer. Having been through it with the others, I know that my days off will consist of running a taxi service, with no quality time together to be found.

“Why bother?” the Struggling-With-Growing-Children part of me keeps asking, sentimental tears leaking from the corners of her eyes at random, usually inopportune, moments.

“Why not?!” the selfish Think-Of-The-Freedom part of me retorts.

I finally decided to carry on with the tradition. After all, it IS a Monday free from work. Even though I know that I’ll be spending most days in my now-familiar role as shuttle service, there are bound to be at least SOME opportunities to connect with my growing girl, and I want to be there to take full advantage. It’s cliché, but I know that I’ll turn around tomorrow and my baby will be gone and out on her own.

The selfish part of me did get a last word in, however.

“It’s your summer right now,” it pointed out to me.

I’ve been taking classes towards my degree forever, but I’ve really ramped it up here lately, trying to get done while I’m still young enough to actually have a career. With school, work, kids, and unavoidable life events, it’s been a really stressful year, and I’m feeling more than a little burned out.

The solution?

Not only am I taking every Monday off through June and July, but May too, while Savannah is still in school. So far I’ve de-junked and repainted the master bedroom (creating a gigantic mess in other parts of the house in the process), giving it a whole new look, and done oodles of laundry… You know, exciting stuff. Today cleaning my closet is on the list, although to be truthful it was there last week too. I opened the door, took one look, and closed it again. I’ve ignored it so far today but, sadly, I know it won’t wait forever.

I’ve also taken the time to read (for fun!), gotten a pedicure, reacquainted myself with this little blog of mine, and spent blissfully quiet moments savoring my morning cup of coffee, looking out at this gorgeous view, with a dog or two cuddled in my lap.

Yes… Mondays CAN be good!

I’m linking up today with Mod Mom Beyond IndieDom.  Thanks so much for the invite!  Click the link above to read other fun posts.

—

“NEW FAMILY MEMBER”

Savannah (11) has been going through that phase for several years where she constantly asks why she can’t have a baby sister (emphasis on the sister part – I guess she thinks we have more than enough testosterone in the house). I have kindly explained to her again and again that  MAMA’S ON THE HOME STRETCH!!!  I’m no longer medically able to have children, what with getting my tubes tied and then that little thing called a hysterectomy a few years later, just for good measure.

She’s finally gotten the fact that I, physically, am not going to have a baby just so she’ll have a plaything whose hair she can fiddle with when the feeling hits. So now she’s moved on to adoption, especially since some friends at church have adopted recently. I can count on at least one pleading-for-adoption conversation a week and, failing that, discussions about the children she’s going to adopt when she gets married (which I think is great! I’m sure by the time she’s 43, when she is allowed to begin dating, she’ll be mature enough to make that commitment).

We’ve even had conversations about fantasy children that I might adopt.

HER: “So if you HAD to adopt, what would you get?
ME: “I don’t have to, so there’s no point in talking about it.”                                             HER: “But say you did…”                                                                                                    ME: “I don’t, so it’s not going to happen.”

(Repeat conversation 233 times)

HER: “What if we became filthy rich, could we at least adopt a horse?”                           ME: “What? NO!!! How’d we move to horses?!”

Lately though, Tom and I have been talking about a new addition to our household. We’ve talked, looked over the budget, debated, listed the pros and cons, talked about whether we could love her as much as the others, even if she was different.

This is not a decision to make lightly, or on a whim, so we’ve just been discussing it and seeing what happens. We hadn’t even really talked about specifics – what characteristics or nationality we were hoping for.

Earlier this week, however, he did the unexpected and brought her home, paperwork already filled out: fully and finally a member of our family.

My baby!

Isn’t she beautiful?!!!  :)

She’s the lone Nissan in a family full of Chevy’s and GMC’s, but I know with a little love and tenderness, she’s going to fit in just fine…

—

Hard to believe it’s been almost three years now, but I still love her as much as the first time I laid eyes on her!  BONUS: Unlike certain children I know, she doesn’t talk back, drive off on her own when she’s not supposed to, or become embarassed to be seen with me in front of the other cars in the parking lot

“Mom! I’m locked out of the house… Again!” she huffed, without even a “hello.”

I could practically see the eye-roll through the phone. The fact that she was locked out was somehow the fault of her dad and me rather than her own for always forgetting her keys. This type of phone call was becoming a regular occurrence. We’d even gotten one of those outdoor hide-a-keys, now locked inside somewhere, along with her own.

“Sorry, dear-heart,” I said. “I can’t leave right now, so you’ll just have to sit tight.

“Can you go to Jessica’s?” Nope.

“Maddi’s?” Nope.

“Anywhere…?”

“I’ll just sit in dad’s truck and do homework until you get home. It’s open,” she helpfully offered.

Feeling slightly guilty as it was a chilly 40-degrees out – this was April in Utah, after all – I went back to work. At 5:00pm, I sprinted out the door and rushed through my long drive home. Pulling into the driveway, I expected to see her huddled form in the front seat of the truck.

Come to think of it, I expected to see the truck…

“Where IS the truck?” my tired brain queried.  I walked around the side of our travel trailer, thinking maybe Tom had moved it to where I couldn’t see it.

Huhhh.  Not there either.

Just as I was walking back around to the front, the S-10 came cruising into the driveway, Savannah at the helm.

Ahhh… mystery of the truck’s whereabouts solved, but my blood was instantly boiling.

“Mom! Have you seen Annie?!!!” she asked in an obviously well-rehearsed “panic” mode, as she leapt from the truck. “I can’t find her anywhere!!”

“Uh-huh… And just HOW do you know the dog is missing if YOU’VE been locked out of the house?” I asked.

Thus ensued a long, totally unbelievable spiel about how she knocked and knocked on the front window without Annie responding. By this point I had already taken away both her phone and iPod (oh, the horror!), and unlocked the front door myself, greeted, of course, by the dogs.

Channeling my mother’s steely voice, along with the debilitating death stare that’s a specialty of the women in our family, I sent her to her room.

Somebody’s in the dog house, but I don’t think it’s Annie!

After I had calmed down a bit, I called my mom for a little sympathy. After all, this was supposed to be my easy child and, so far, her teenage years have been anything but. Mom is always the first to tell me what a good kid I had been, and swears that she never pronounced the mother’s curse on me. Finishing my story, I got laughter instead of the commiseration I had expected.

“Tracy, remember the Buick?!”

 Well played, mom. Well played…

I’m back over at “Yeah Write” this week. Feel free to click the link above if you’d like to drop by and check out the other entries.

It’s hard to believe it’s been 3 years since this happened! I’m now down to just one teenager in the house, and she’s too young to drive yet – thank the Lord. Actually,  I should amend that to say she’s too young to drive LEGALLY, but that’s a blog post for another day

—

“MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH”

Or, “Teenagers are a trip…”

Here’s an appropriate quote I found this week, author unknown.

“It’s difficult to decide whether growing pains are something teenagers have – or are.”

Truer words were never spoken!!!

So here’s the latest story: In our home, we have two teenagers, but only one of them has earned his driver’s license. In mid-February, said teenager was pulled over by police on his way to school one day.

Was he speeding? No. Was he weaving erratically through traffic? No. Was he talking on his cell phone or texting? NO. He was just a teenage boy on his way to school, minding his own business.

However, when the policeman decided to run the plates, just for the fun of it, the vehicle came back as being uninsured. Cue flashing lights and siren!

Turns out that our insurance company had the wrong VIN number in the system, so the vehicle, even though actually insured, wasn’t showing up as such. Frantic mom called the insurance company and they were nice enough to speak directly to the policeman, saving us an impound fee, but the policeman had already issued the citation and couldn’t rescind it (which mom personally thinks is bunk, but who asked her?). The insurance company also faxed us a letter stating that we did indeed have insurance on this particular vehicle, how long we’d had it, the fact that we’d never had any lapses… the usual. Now-mollified mom gave teenage boy the letter and reminded him that he needed to take it in to the court to get the problem fully taken care of.

Fast-forward to about a week ago. Mom picks up the mail, only to find a letter formally addressed to “Horrible Parents of Neglectful Child” stating that  because said child had never gone in to formally prove that he had insurance, he was not only being charged with being an uninsured motorist but would have a “Failure to Appear” warrant if he didn’t get his mangy butt in to the court by May 5th. Monday we took another copy of the letter from the insurance company and went to the court, assuming that the problem would end there.

Is anything in my life ever really that simple?

No. ** Sigh **

Because this child had waited so long, he would now have to appear on Wednesday to speak to the prosecutor. After standing in line to see the prosecutor, he explained that, even though they were able to dismiss the uninsured motorist charge, because it hadn’t been taken care of when it was supposed to, said child still had to go before the judge on the Failure to Appear warrant and face a $207 fine. He recommended that the fine be dropped to $50, but emphasized that it was “ONLY a recommendation; the judge doesn’t have to accept it.” He gave us a paper and sent us to stand in line – again – at the clerk’s window, where we had started off the afternoon.

When it was finally our turn, the lady gave us an orange piece of paper, carefully making sure that we understood that, “even though the recommendation was to drop the fine to $50, the judge didn’t have to accept that.” As we entered the courtroom, the judge, whom I actually grew to love by the time we were done, was informing the person up to bat that even though they had a recommendation by the prosecutor, she didn’t have to hold to that.

Gee – I think they wanted us to take note of that fact.

We then spent the next two hours watching person after person take the stand, most for no insurance, no registration, and suspended licenses. Excuse after excuse was offered, but the judge handled them all in a totally even-handed and even humorous manner, only chewing up and spitting out a few of them. Each sentence ended with X-amount of days in jail, suspended upon payment of fine. One man offered up the excuse that his wife threatened to buy a dog if he didn’t sell his motorcycle. “One of those yappy little things!” he responded when the judge asked what kind, when explaining the reason that he took his beloved bike out for one last, uninsured ride before selling it.

When teenage boy finally got his turn, the judge read through the file and, lo and behold, for probably the first time that day, she agreed with the prosecutor’s recommendation! The fine would only be $50. As she told the court stenographer what to write on the paperwork,  coming to the line about jail time, she looked over the rim of her glasses at my boy, a wry smile on her face.

“He’s too young, so we can’t give him jail time, tempting as it is!”

I really like this woman…

—

Sadly, this judge passed away about 2 years ago from cancer. The world lost a true character who actually made spending a day in court fun, at least for this mom.

—

“Where’s Chef Ramsey When You Need Him?”

I am sick to death of all the meals that I serve at home. And by all, I mean the three things that it seems like we eat on a never-ending rotation: spaghetti, pork chops, and spanish rice with hamburger.

Okay, I MAY be exaggerating a little bit, but it really doesn’t seem like it.

In almost 15 years of marriage, I think I have found 2 recipes that the WHOLE family likes. My heaven on earth would be an evening where my quiet, well-behaved children (if you’re going to dream, dream big I always say) ask me what’s for dinner. After I tell them, there would be a total absence of gagging noises, declarations of “I’m not eating!”, or a mad dash for the milk and cereal. When I’m really daydreaming, these angelic children even voluntarily clean the table and do dishes without being forced, shortly before heading off to a quiet evening in their rooms, doing their homework.

Insert happy sigh…

Anyhoo, back to reality!

Because I’m so bored with everything we eat, and because I’m always on the lookout for some magic recipe that will be universally loved by all, I have been on a “new recipe” binge. When the hubby or the children ask me “what’s for dinner?” my slight hesitation always lets them know that mom’s at it again. Anguished cries are sent heaven-ward, but I figure that’s what they get for not giving me any ideas when I make up the weekly grocery list.

Last week I tried a recipe for turkey steaks and potato stroganoff. The recipe came on the turkey steak package, and it sounded wonderful. I’m an Idaho girl through-and-through, so anything with potatoes wins me over. I bought all the ingredients and rushed home to make my newest masterpiece. I thinly sliced oodles of potatoes, diced onions, and chopped mushrooms, mixed it with the cream of mushroom soup and sour cream, and spread it in my cake pan, just like the recipe instructed. I added the turkey steaks, and poured the remaining soup mix over the top. It didn’t fit quite as nicely in my pan is it probably did in their test kitchen, but no matter! I wrapped it sturdily in aluminum foil and shoved it in the oven for 1 hour. Dinner would be delicious and, best yet, ON TIME!

An hour later I came back, peeled back the foil, and speared a potato slice. Hmmm… they didn’t taste very done, so I put it back in, checking on it every 10 minutes. After 40. More. Minutes (now after 9:00 pm), I tried another potato. Still not as tender as I’d have liked, but at least it was edible. In addition, the soup mixture had boiled over the sides and made two very large, lovely pools of gooey mess on the bottom of the oven. It had to be done, right?

I proceeded to dish Tom’s plate, but when I tried to snag a turkey steak, it broke apart into a gooey, raw mess. it was NOT done at all. At that point I had a small mommy melt-down, and we all ate cereal for dinner. After finally calming myself down, I dumped the whole shebang into the crockpot, figuring that I could cook it the following day for many, many hours. Short side note — after crockpot cooking it for hours on end, the turkey was done but those *&#$! potatoes STILL weren’t. Needless to say, I threw that recipe away!.

Fast forward to last night: I was making my easy chicken parmesan, which has to be cooked at a fairly high temperature. I had the oven pre-heating while I sat at the table, engrossed in a book.

Evan wandered in, asking what all the smoke was from.

“Huh?” I said, returning to reality. “What smoke?”

Around that same time, I glanced at the oven to see quite a large fire, burning away… In my panicked state, I couldn’t remember how to put out the flames other than smothering it with salt. I couldn’t find the large container of salt, so I was frantically shaking the little 99-cent salt shaker at it, which, no surprise, wasn’t worth a pinch of salt.

Luckily, Evan’s a little brighter than his mom and beat it out with his t-shirt. Guess I’d forgotten to clean up the turkey-gravy mess that had spilled – one of a zillion chores I had planned to take care of last weekend.

Tom knew better than to even ask when he got home. He just made some comment about the house being awfully smelly (this, after a freezing hour-and-a-half with the windows and doors wide open).

“Hush, and eat your charcoal!”

—

Even though I’m down to only one child at home, I’m still facing the same old battle. You’d think it would be easier to find meals with only three of us…  Time to start looking at new recipes again!

In other news, I have one final paper due at midnight tonight, and then I’m off for the summer! I had planned on taking at least one course this semester, but am feeling dangerously close to being burnt-out, so I’m taking this needed break. Hopefully that means I’ll have more time to write the things that I want to, rather than exciting things like the statistical probability of the use of “sentential nouns,” my chore for tonight.

Is it any wonder I needed a break?!

Photo courtesy of Flickr Creative Commons. Some rights reserved by schnaars.

The assignment was to do an archival report to find out what was happening in the news on local, national, and international levels on our date of birth. I had a blast going through old newspapers and magazines, and came up with some interesting stuff.

Now in this particular class, we are required to bring in a draft version before the final product is due. We meet individually with the professor as he reads it, then gives us input.

—

First, let me back up.

I am what is referred to as a “nontraditional” student, meaning that I am married, have kids, and am older than dirt.  Okay—maybe not that last part, but some days it feels like it.

I graduated from high school in the late ’80’s (that’s the 20th century, lest my children become confused) and immediately signed up for college. I also got married, started a family, and divorced by 22—not exactly your “best practice” for completing college. Life took over, and that dream of earning a degree got shoved into a corner somewhere, buried under a ton of laundry with a smattering of broken Hot Wheels cars to go with it. I later remarried with the whole “his,” “hers,” and finally an “ours” to tie us all together, and started working for the university where I’ve been for many years now.

That college dream, long smothered, thrust it’s tired head out of the laundry heap and whispered to me again. I started taking a class here and there, working towards my degree. I am now, finally, halfway through my junior year and excited to see an end in sight.

However.

Because of my nontraditional route, I often feel a little out of place. It’s hard to join conversations where everyone is talking about the latest video games, or parties, and actors and actresses I’ve never heard of. I’m constantly asking my daughter to tell me, again, who are the Kardashian’s? or Snooki? And why do we care?

This semester I gave myself a pep talk:

“Who cares how much older you are?  You have that much more experience, and know what you want! Besides, you’re really not THAT old.” So far, it had been going well.

—

Waiting for my turn, I listened to the conversations of those around me.

“I can’t believe how hard it was to find sources for my birthday,” one girl complained. “There was, like, nothing happening in 1992!”

Nothing except for the birth of my first child, anyway.  Ackkk!

Relieved to leave that conversation behind me, I handed over my paper. Reading through my introduction, the professor, no spring chicken himself, stopped and looked up.

“This was a long time ago…” he said, inflection heavy on the “long,” then continued his reading.

A few minutes later he looked up again, then stared off into the far reaches of the room.

“This was really, really A LONG TIME AGO,” he muttered, shaking his head, before snapping out of it and handing me back my paper.

—

Picking up what was left of my ego, I walked back to my office, alternately annoyed and amused.

“Man!” I thought. “I really, really could use a nap.”

I’m back over at Yeah Write today. Click the link above to see what other people have on their minds this week!

I don’t remember the particulars, but I know my mom was having a Very. Bad. Day. We were unloading groceries, some of us more willingly than others. I’m pretty sure it was Forrest who whined about something – that’s all the kid ever did, in my opinion – when the gallon of milk exploded, slammed down by mom as the last of her patience disappeared.

Milk ran in rivulets off the counter and to the floor, drops cascaded down cabinet doors, plunking the counter before joining the white waterfall, and a light rain of milk drip-dropped from the blades of the ceiling fan.

“GET. OUT. NOW.”  Mom said in that certain mommy-meltdown voice.

Forrest high-tailed it to his room while I made my way outside to hide in the hay barn. Sitting there, I decided to forgive mom for her tantrum and bestow my help upon her.  And what better way than to empty the heavy bags of horse feed out of the trunk of the Buick? Doing this dreaded chore without being asked, I was sure to be back in her good graces!

Granted, mom always had me use the wheelbarrow, but the little shed seemed soooo far away, especially in the stifling Idaho heat. If dad were here, he would let me drive. He’d been teaching me (okay –he’d let me try once), and I’d driven the car down the long drive to the shed before.

Piece of cake! Except then it wasn’t.

You see, we had this goat who thought he was a dog.

As I was carefully backing the car out, having snuck the keys from mom’s purse, Pal jumped against my door, scaring the bejeezus out of me. Rather than stepping on the brake, I pushed the gas instead, slamming into my dad’s old truck.

Oh God, Oh God… I AM SO DEAD!

I got out and surveyed the damage. The truck was built like a tank but, sadly, the Buick wasn’t. Picking up slivers of taillight, I shoved them in the trunk, and reparked. Using the wheelbarrow, I continued on with my good deed, praying for what time I had left on earth.

Later, mom had cooled down and decided to treat us to dinner at our favorite restaurant, the Country Diner.

I was sweating bullets as we got in the car, but she never noticed the rear end, either then or at the restaurant.

“I’m home free!!!” I thought. “If she notices now, she’ll think it happened here.”

Much relaxed, we headed out for the drive home. Suddenly, a stillness filled the air.

Eyes blazing, mom looked at the mangled corner of the Buick, then back at me.

“TRACY,” she said in The. Scariest. Voice. Ever.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

—

“ENTERPRISING YOUNG THING”

—

“THINGS I MISS”

A hairbrush, gray.

Another hairbrush, pink.

Kitchen knives: 20 or more; the latest set less than 3 months old.

Socks.

Shoes.

Headphones.

Cell phones.

Scissors.

Nail clippers.

The door to a kitty carrier.

These are just a few of the things that go “missing” around our house, absconded by my wonderful children (also known as the famous “not me’s”) never to be seen again. But of all of them, it is that last one that I miss the most.

“Why” you ask?  Let me explain…

We technically live in “the country,” although in the last 5 years or so many houses have sprung up around us. Anyway, even though we’re now in a neighborhood, the area is still decidedly rural. The first year we moved in, our new neighbors across the street had kittens. “Why, YES! We’d love a kitten!” we said. “It’ll help keep down on the mice,” we said.

Back then we were continuously strapped financially, and so we didn’t really have the money to get said kitten spayed. She rapidly grew up and, before you knew it, had a cute litter of kittens of her own. We found homes for all the kittens but one, a sweet-hearted little thing we named Google because Savannah, only 3 at the time, said she had “googly” eyes. Now mom and daughter were on a race to see who could be the most prolific producers of kittens. I almost always managed to find homes for most, but it seems there was always at least one that ended up being left behind.

All this to say that, at present, we have FOUR mama kitties who seem always ready to pop out another litter. And while I love kittens, enough is enough! It has been my goal since February to get them all fixed so that we can put an end to this kitty-cascade, but have you seen how much it costs to get them spayed?!!! The cheapest I could find here in our area is $85 per female cat, which I think is highway robbery.

Every-other month the “Big Fix” mobile clinic comes to Logan for one day to offer dog and cat spaying/neutering for much-reduced rates: $25 compared to the $85. Every-other month since February I have locked a kitty in a crate the night before, starved it, listened to it yowl loudly and mournfully all the way into town, stood in line with hundreds of other people and their pets, only to be turned away because they can only take the first 40 or 50 pets. The first time I was only two people behind the cutoff. Arrggghh! I then drive my yowling cat back home and let the poor, bewildered thing out of the crate. I’m sure that they all think I’ve lost my marbles. I don’t understand WHY they can’t just let people make appointments, as I’m told they do in other areas.

I’ve finally given up on the mobile clinic, so last week I called and made an appointment at the local vet clinic for today. I’ll do a cat a month. We got home fairly late, so I went to grab the kitty carrier, only to discover the missing door. I still cannot figure out WHAT possible use there could be for a cat carrier door, without the cat carrier, but it is gone. Of course no one KNOWS where it went, or why, and, “Oh geez, here mom goes again…”

I finally kicked Stitch, our goofy black lab, out of his crate that he sleeps in. Door? Check. But, what’s this? Even though there’s a door attached, it doesn’t actually latch.

Great.

I finally got Stitch out and the cat in, held the door shut by bracing it with garden implements, and went to bed. I’ll deal with it in the morning. So, here we are: the day of reckoning! I still couldn’t find the cat carrier door, and I couldn’t get the large dog crate with meowing kitty into the Tahoe without help because I had to hold that door shut. I finally got to the vet and went inside to ask if they had a smaller carrier that I could bring her in with. They handed me a tiny little crate that looked like it might hold at least half of her, and off I went. I opened the back doors of the Tahoe, scooted the large dog crate around, held the new crate (with a door!) in front, and proceeded to TRY to stuff her in. Man can she put up a fight!

It ended, not surprisingly, with her making a leap up and over the smaller carrier, over my shoulder, and off into the parking lot. By this time, the two vet assistants had come out to see what the obvious hold-up was. The three of us circled the clinic from different angles more than a few times. I’d finally catch her, stand up and start for the doorway when she’d dig her claws into whatever appendage happened to be closest, and then launch herself back into the bushes again. One of the assistants finally grabbed her and held her in a great hold that I’m thinking I may actually try on the kids when they start lipping off.

Anyway, one cat down and three to go! I’m exhausted…

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For the record, we still have 4 cats, and ALL of them are fixed. Thank heavens, because I don’t think I’m ready to go through that particular rodeo again any time soon!