To Each His Own

This week, Adelaide's "own" was new glasses,

which she seriously loves, as do the rest of us.  They arrived just in time, as her cheaper, stand-in pair were literally falling apart every time she tried to do extravagant things like wear them on her face.

Derek's own, I think, was re-adjusting to Iowa temperatures after being in Florida for most of a week.  It's very strange to see him uncomfortable with the cold as he's usually the hardiest of us all, but something about going from shorts in 70-some degree weather to a snowstorm in 14-degree weather was a bit of a shock to his system.  Those of us who had remained in Iowa were very sympathetic to his plight:  "Uh-huh.  Here's your coat."  Not to worry, the hero worship commenced as soon as the kids were awake enough to realize he was back.

Caedmon's own was being a bit under the weather for a day, just long enough to stay home from preschool on a morning where Derek just so happened to also be home.  After a morning spent with Daddy, he used the "I'm siiiiick" excuse to stay in his jammies all day and spend naptime snuggled up next to me.  He claimed the poo pillow made him feel better.  

My own was falling for the first time on a run this winter.  Given how clumsy I am, I have no idea how I made it this long.  It was a minor fall, just slipping on some ice, then on down onto my hands and knees, after which I flopped onto my back to catch my breath and assess any injuries, which aside from a sore foot, were none!  I somehow managed to get mud on my face, and my fall was in front of a couple store fronts and in plain sight of a bunch of houses, so I can only hope my little stunt provided some kind of entertainment for those stuck indoors, endlessly waiting for spring.

War paint

Atticus's own, more than anything, was the death of my mom and Mark's cat, Ed.  We got Ed when I was in high school, so he lived a long life full of victorious crusades against the local vole and rabbit population, which he very thoughtfully left on Mom's front step on a frequent basis, and in his later years, he enjoyed a quiet life monopolizing Mark's lap and being king of all he surveyed, except when the grandkids came to visit and he paid for his otherwise peaceful life by suffering from an abundance of overly physical love.
I broke the news to the kids last night, and while Adelaide and Caedmon were sad at the news of Ed's passing, Atticus was the most upset, which I had expected.  He cried and wanted to spend plenty of time close to me, asking questions about how he died and why he died and whether or not cats go to heaven.  We told stories about Ed, mostly gentle ones from the kids, with a saltier one thrown in here and there by me, such as the time Ed lulled us all into complacency by sweetly sleeping next to the tank where Steph's teddy bear hamster lived, then shocking us all- particularly Steph, who was the first to stumble upon the scene- by one day removing the head of dear Harry Potter Price from his fluffy little body.  (Now, as a mother, I'm wondering how my mom got all that blood out of the blue carpet, because I remember there being a lot of it- both blood and carpet.)
This charming anecdote cheered Atticus more than anything, and he then put in a formal request for Grandma and Mark to get another cat immediately.  He is generously giving them two names from which to choose:  Either Ed, or Pooch.

And now, a gallery of Ed Photographs, because that's what you do when someone dies.

Ed being stalked by one of many enthusiastically affectionate grandchildren.

A typical scene when the grandkids came a-callin':  Children: "ED!"  Ed: "Kill meeeeee."

Laaaassie!

I feel bad for Adelaide.

The reason I feel bad for her is because I have allergies.  And not just feel-like-you-have-a-slight-head-cold-every-once-in-awhile allergies, but Paul from the Wonder Years allergies.   Have to have inhalers strategically placed throughout your home and car and carry an Epipen in your bag kind of allergies.

Normally they don't affect our kids too much.  I try not to wander through giant fields of ragweed and avoid Red Lobster like it might kill me (because it could, ha...ha?).

In the past year or so, however, Adelaide has begun asking for a pet.  She knows I'm allergic to cats and dogs (I know, I know, it completely sucks to be my kids), and that, for now at least, those two animals are out.  So she's moved right on to smaller species, like turtles, hamsters, birds, etc.

Having grown up with pets, I am fully aware what would happen if we ever brought any of these animals home.  The first couple weeks (optimistically speaking), the kids would be all over them.  Feeding them, cleaning their cages, paying attention to them.  Slowly but surely, all responsibility would fall to me, Mom.

Right now is just not a good time for added responsibility.  Our kids are still young enough that I spend half my days up to my elbows in some kind of bodily fluid.  Or I'm putting every last kitchen utensil back in it's drawer.  Or I'm scrubbing chalk off the wall.  Or I'm trying to get lotion out of the carpet.  The last thing I need is an extra body to clean up after.

If Adelaide whined or threw a fit after we told her "No, you cannot have a fish right now", or "No, you cannot have a lizard ever," I wouldn't feel so bad.  That kind of behavior causes any and all sympathy to evaporate from my being.

Instead, a few days ago, Adelaide found a ladybug crawling up the wall of her bedroom.  She got it to crawl onto her finger, ran over and looked into my face, eyes shining, and breathlessly asked, "Mom, can I have a ladybug as a pet?  Please?"

She may as well have asked for "More gruel, please?"  That's how guilty I felt.

Maybe she could get a hamster.  I'm sure God didn't give me a deficient sense of smell for no reason.