Category Archives: parenting

I Suck at Dogs

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Sheepdog and I were married a little over a year when I had the brilliant idea to get a puppy.  I never had one growing up, but Sheepdog did.  Plus, I figured that we should test our care taking skills out before I got pregnant with a human.  We scanned the newspaper ads and drove out to a farm in Elmer to meet and pick up our new “baby.”  He was a chocolate lab with beautiful blue eyes.  We named him Max.

Max was trouble right from the start.  I thought he was possessed.  He chewed everything… shoes, furniture, doors, floors.  He dug up plants.  I had no idea what I was doing and I was a horrible dog disciplinarian.  I was at work all day and Sheepdog was in law school, so Max was home alone for long stretches at a time.  He began to hate us for it and he acted out accordingly.  Looking back, I should have done so many things differently.  I was naive and inexperienced and just threw in the towel.  Through Sheepdog’s sister we found a friend in West Virginia who had a 100-acre farm and wanted Max as a hunting dog.  No, really.  He went to go live happily ever after on a real farm.  I struggled desperately with it, but I finally conceded that I was just not a dog person.

Shortly after Max left I got pregnant with Kid A.  Then came Kid B.  And then Kid C.  And a miscarriage.  And Kid D.  Life was messy and chaotic and busy enough without adding a dog to the mix.  None of our houses had pet-friendly yards and I had horribly bad memories of Max still fresh in my mind, so I did not even consider it again until more than a decade later.  But during this time Kid B had become obsessed with dogs.  I mean crazy obsessed.  It was weird.  She would crawl around on all fours and somehow make her hands look like real paws.  She would bark and make other dog noises that were so authentic that I often thought there was an actual dog in our house.  What kind of horribly selfish parent wouldn’t get a live dog for this kid?  Me.  Because I’m just not a dog person.

In 2006 we moved on Halloween Day to a bigger house with a great yard.  The kids quickly settled in to their new schools as I unpacked our things.  When the holidays rolled around and I started planning for the big day I got an idea.  What if I surprised the kids with a dog on Christmas Eve?  It would be perfect!  This time I would do it right.  No brand-new puppy, but a dog that was about a year old.  It would definitely be a rescue this time too.  I endlessly researched breeds, talked to dog owners, scanned the internet, and found the perfect dog.  He was a 10-month-old vizsla mix named Chex.  I thought he was perfect.  Sheepdog went to pick him up on Christmas Eve and I kept the kids busy until we could surprise them with the newest member of our family.  It was exactly as I had envisioned it… the kids squealed with delight when we told them that Chex was our dog.

Turns out, our dog was too strong for any of the kids to handle him.  His freakishly powerful tail was inconveniently at face-height for the children so he kept whipping them all in the eyes.  And he was highly excitable and peed on just about everything.  He was on top of the kitchen counter with lightning speed.  Kids C and D quickly became so fearful of him that they locked themselves in their rooms, telling me through closed doors and tears that they were never coming out again.  And it was Christmas Eve.  Things calmed down a little and we read the Christmas Story and put the kids to bed.  I walked Chex and put him in his crate for the night.  He immediately started to howl.  Like a crazed wolf.  On a night with a full moon.  I truly believed with all my heart that Santa would just skip our house that night because Chex would scare him away.  I cried myself to sleep with absolutely no visions of sugar plums dancing in my head.

Some time in the night I decided that Chex had to go back.  We simply could not keep this dog.  Half of our kids were scared to death of him and, frankly, I was scared of him too.  He was so strong!  It broke my heart, but we called the family who we got him from and humbly asked if we could return him.  Immediately.   Sheepdog loaded him in his truck with his stocking full of new toys and treats and drove off.  On Christmas Day.  So, that was special.  I struggled desperately with it again, but I was reminded that I am just not a dog person.

After the 18-hour dog debacle, I vowed to never again even entertain the idea of getting a pet.  My friends and relatives made me promise that I wouldn’t do that to my family or – just as importantly – another poor dog.  Then I got pregnant with Kid E.  More chaos, more lost sleep, more life.

Fast forward a few years.  Kid B deepened her obsession with animals, especially dogs.  While she outgrew the acting like a dog phase, she began relentlessly asking about us getting a dog just about once every other month.  I told her we’d think about it (lie), but it just wasn’t a good time for us to get a dog (never will be, kid).  When I was reading a book about animals to Kid D’s kindergarten class I asked who had pets.  Everyone in the class except my kid raised their hand.  I felt horrible.  What was wrong with me that I couldn’t just suck it up and get my kids a dog?  They teach responsibility, provide companionship and security, and can reduce stress and anxiety.  I was being selfish and a bad parent for not giving those things to my kids.

So I did it again.  Oh, yes I did.  I researched breeds.  I scanned the pet adoption websites.  I talked to people who had dogs.  I found a beautiful puppy at the Georgia SPCA that I thought would be ideal.  Sheepdog was concerned initially, but he just couldn’t deny the many benefits of dog ownership that I was repeatedly pointing out.  Very reluctantly, he got on board.  We gingerly approached the subject with the kids, making sure that they knew up front that we were just testing the waters.  They were over the moon.

I took Kid A and Kid B with me to the shelter.  Interestingly, the dog room was set up like a maze but I was immediately drawn to the exact spot where they held the puppy I found online.  And not only her, but her litter mates as well.  They all had Girl Scout cookie names… Shortbread, Thin Mint, Samoa, etc.  They were all adorable, but Shortbread and I bonded immediately.  The girls loved her too.  I asked about her adoption.  Shortbread had been recently spayed and her incision had become irritated.  We couldn’t bring her home for at least a week, which was a great thing in my opinion because I still was taking baby steps and I wanted to live with this decision for a little while prior to pulling the trigger.  We put down a pre-adoption deposit and they gave me her paperwork.  I left the shelter feeling really good about dog ownership.  This time I was going to do it!

Until I wasn’t.  By mid-week I had developed a significant twitch in my right eye.  I kept having nightmares about worms.  And vet bills.  By the end of the week I was in a full-blown panic about bringing home this puppy.  Even though I was reminding the kids hourly that we were still just entertaining the idea of getting a dog (they did not know about the deposit), they were devastated when I announced that we were, in fact, not adopting Shortbread.  I was so proud that I put and end to the nonsense prior to actually involving the dog, but I was still the worst mom on the planet.

As protection from myself and any future insanity about dog adoption, Sheepdog swears to never allow me down this road again.  He guarantees to forbid it.  By now I think the kids have forgiven me.  I continue to struggle with it, but I think now I truly understand that I am not a dog person.  More than that, I suck at dogs.

Maybe I’d do better with cats. (I’m totally kidding)

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

If You Have to Poop, Go Home

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I met a new friend a few months ago. Her son was playing mixed doubles tennis with Kid C.  Kid C just took up tennis for the first time this winter. She’s playing well, but she just does not have much experience and she is still pretty timid with the ball.  Plus, there was something shiny up in the sky that probably distracted her.  Her partner was not at all thrilled with her level of play, but fortunately not much fazes Kid C.  They lost the match even though it was pretty close.  Kid C even commented in the car on the way home, “Today was really a great day, mom!”  You’ve got to love that kind of enthusiasm and positivity.

Even though the other kid was John McEnroe competitive, his mom was great.  We talked on the bench while the match was going on and I learned that she was living in a house on the corner that I admire every time I pass by.  There is a big black lab in the front yard who takes his guard duties very seriously.  There are always great seasonal decorations throughout the year.  It just looks like a really fun house to live in.  But most importantly, there is always a football game going on in their front yard.  The boys are in the eight to ten-year old range (I’m guessing) and they are always out there playing. My oldest son (Kid D) is only six and is more of a baseball kid.  I always say that I’m just going to send him on down to that house to toughen up and learn to play some real sports.

So when I tell the football house mom this, she proceeds to tell me that she has become somewhat of a tough cookie when it comes to playing at her house.  This is obviously not her first rodeo. Here are the rules for playing at  her house:

  1. If you are a cry baby, don’t even show up.
  2. If they’re playing tackle and somebody gets hurt or maimed, it is an automatic switch to flag.
  3. This isn’t a restaurant, so don’t expect food or drinks.
  4. If you have to pee, go outside.
  5. If you have to poop, go home.

I am guessing that she has had to learn some lessons the hard way.  Despite these rules, and her unrelenting enforcement of them, her yard is always full of kids (and oftentimes dads too).  They are always running and playing and yelling.  It makes me smile every time I pass by.  There is something to be said for letting people know your rules.

Try to make a short list of your own house rules.  Write them down and display them where everybody can see them.  That way there is no question when it comes to your expectations.  You can make them about anything.  Try starting with things you find yourself saying over a hundred times per day.  No hitting.  No whining.  No jumping on the furniture.  Speak kindly to one another.  Do your chores without being asked.  No cursing before lunchtime.  No entertaining guests in your bedroom.  And, of course, if you have to poop, go home.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

You’re Not Ugly

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Some of my kids I worry about, but not so much Kid E.  What is one of the most critical things to master in the grown-up world?  People Skills.  You won’t get anywhere if you don’t know how to deal with people.  And the best of the best always seem to leave us wanting more.  That’s why I think Kid E is on his way to having it all figured out.  Seriously.  But did I mention that he is three?

He goes to pre-school a few mornings a week.  Pre-school in a strip mall.  I learned years ago that the best pre-schools are not the pretty new buildings with the high-tech computer rooms for babies and the young, sexy teachers (Sheepdog was sad, sad, sad when I figured that out), but the best places to send your kids are the ones that sometimes smell just faintly of pee and have women running the show in sweatpants and ball caps.  Some of the best pre-school teachers and day care providers I have met have been the ones who work in older facilities that have been around for ages and put more money into macaroni and glitter than any of that other unnecessary stuff.  These are the women who usually have kids of their own and they have been through all of it and yet they still choose to work in a place filled with other people’s snotty, whiny children all day long.  They actually like what they do and they care about my kids.  These are the women I want running my pre-school show.

Anyway, Kid E goes to school and he loves it.  He learns letters and shapes and colors and songs.  He ends his days with a sticker and a stamp.  It doesn’t get much better than that for him.  He really loves his teacher.  She came in mid-year and replaced another teacher who he couldn’t get enough of, yet apparently he loves the new one more.  Do you want to know how I know?  He paid her his highest compliment.  He totally grabbed both of her cheeks with both of his sweaty little hands and looked her straight in the eyes and said with all the seriousness he could muster, “You’re.  Not.  Ugly.”  And, just like that (snap!), she was putty in his hands.

It is true because shortly after he buttered her up they had a conflict regarding the overuse of hand soap in the bathroom.  She was (rightfully) telling him not to do something and he got mad at her.  She stuck to her guns and he shut her out the rest of the day.  He wasn’t disrespectful (not allowed), but he withheld hugs and would not even say goodbye when we left.  I could see the pain in her eyes as he left her.  I think that she probably cried herself to sleep that night.  I told her that she should be ashamed for allowing a little kid to outsmart her.  He was becoming a master puppeteer already.  We are in for some serious manipulation, folks.

Think about the genius of it for a moment.  We all love to have compliments paid to us.  Don’t you get a little extra bounce in your walk if somebody notices a new haircut or mentions how cute your outfit is on any regular day?  Of course you do.  And it is hard to deny the drawing power of someone who plays hard to get.  That unreachable, untouchable, unattainable something or someone can be like crack if you get it in your head deep enough.  Somehow, with three simple words this kid managed to combine the two.  It’s not really a compliment, yet it makes you feel like you are special.  It is actually just a negated insult presented as kudos.  Unbelievable.

So my little Pre-School Playa continued to woo the masses.  He sensed the power and started to dole out variations like, “You’re not scary” and “You don’t smell bad.”  People would eat it up.  They think he is charming.  He was starting to get comfortable and I was momentarily a little worried that he might grow up to be one of those jerks who only gave out backhand compliments as some sort of control move.  This was the kind of boy that I didn’t ever want coming near my daughters.  What if I became the Mother of one?  I had to stop this behavior immediately, no matter how cute it was coming from a toddler.  Then one day out of the blue he grabbed both of my cheeks with both of his sweaty little hands, looked me straight in the eyes and said with all the sincerity in the world, “You.  Are.  Cute.”  My heart swelled with joy as I replied, “and You’re.  Not.  Stupid.”

Nope, I really don’t worry so much about that kid.

I Have to Start Somewhere

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

…mid-sentence, so I can introduce you to my lack of formality right from the beginning.

Right now my life revolves mostly around my husband and our five kids.  My husband (“Sheepdog”) is an attorney and a cyclist (road and mountain).  The kids (“Kid A,” “Kid B,” “Kid C,” “Kid D” and “Kid E”) – three girls followed by two boys – go from high school all the way down to pre-school, so we are dealing with a huge array of life experiences.  I want to write about them because (1) I like to write; (2) they provide endless funny, scary, sad, exasperating stories that are sure to entertain; and (3) having something to do is probably better for me than watching DVR’d reality shows all day.

Many people tell me that I am good at managing a large family.  Organization comes very naturally to me.  Honestly, I love what I do most of the time.  There are always periods of adjustment (the start of a new sports season or new school year) and times of desperation (when everyone is sick or when I try to do too much of anything), but I have an incredibly supportive husband and generally really great kids so we usually make it all work.  The balance comes from having a good system with a fair distribution of responsibilities, but also a wicked sense of humor because you know what they say about the best-laid plans.

I really like the idea of reminding people that nobody is perfect and nobody has the ideal life, no matter how awesome it may seem from their Facebook page.  I hope that I am able to write as openly and candidly about the times that I screw up as I am about the things that make me proud.  I am actually convinced that it will make for better reading when I focus on the former.  Fortunately I like to make fun of myself and I have ample opportunities to make a mess of things.

I am a little obsessive-compulsive, although that has surprisingly subsided slightly with age (Sheepdog may argue with this point).  I make my bed every day.  I love a good schedule.  I like potty humor.  I love zoos.  I do not love animals.  I love sleep and the beach.  I may get a little orgasmic if I can sleep on the beach.  I can be judgmental.  I do not like working out, but I do it because I dislike being out of shape more.  I like being a stay-at-home mom because I can wear sweatpants to work, but I feel bad that I do not take more time to do my hair or put on makeup every day.  I can be ornery.  I am not very politically correct.  I like to be good at things.

I have been blessed with good health and good luck and a good family.  I realize that the world can be a very scary place if you don’t have those things.  I believe that positive thinking and consistent hard work can make a big difference.  I believe in the power of shared experiences and how hearing about somebody else going through something similar can make you feel less alone.  I hope that you will read along as I go through and tell you about my life experiences and that you might laugh and cry and scream.  Both with and at me.

Welcome to my world!

Oh, and wish me luck for tomorrow…