Yikes.

I had no idea I would need to use the tips she mentioned so soon.

No, I wasn’t in an earthquake. My car didn’t tumble over the Bay Bridge. There was no grease fire in my garage. Nope…what happened was far more terrifying…this week, Ava had her four-year-old check up.

Not scary you say?

HA!

I was terrified. Here’s why…

The doctor completed her exam of Ava and then began asking me questions:

So, unbeknownst to me, my sweet little daughter became a gun-toting, drunk, violated, accident-prone, sex-obsessed freak on her fourth birthday.

Now, I’m all for communicating with your kids, encouraging them to be safe, and bracing them for the Big Bad World. But if I was faced with all of this, even as an adult…it would scare the crap out of me. Maybe I’m just freaked out and naive. I had no idea that all things scary were going to sneak up on her (and me) so early into her childhood.

I started to wonder what it was about age four where all of this suddenly became a reality. I’m sure it has to do with a four-year-old’s ability to communicate, reason, and other cognitive developments. I’m sure practicing all of these skills and drills will make her more prepared in the case of an emergency (at least that’s what the lady who wrote the disaster book said).

So I thought about it and tried to think about a way to bring some of this up with her. I decided to ask Ava what scared her and see if I could tie in any of the giant list of warnings from the doctor. Here’s how the conversation went:

Me:  Ava, are there things that scare you or make you feel frightened?

Ava: Yes. I am scared of lots of things. The sea monster on Scooby Doo is scary. Tiny monsters are OK, but big monsters are scary.

Me:  Anything else, honey.

I feel horrible about this. I love dogs. My husband love dogs. We love dogs. Nonetheless, I feel responsible for her fear.

Now, I have a dog. He is a cranky, crotchety, old wiener dog. He has stinky breath, a white face, and a bionic back. When he was three he developed a disc disease. So, ten years ago, UC Davis vet hospital removed most of his discs and, after two surgeries, $5,000 from my very lean I-just-started-working-for-real-like-a-grown-up bank account.

He was never the same. He became crabby and mean. Wiener dogs aren’t like real dogs, anyway. They don’t capitulate. They don’t seek to please. They aren’t dopey, unconditional love dogs. No, they are more like cats. They primarily bond to one person. This meant my husband was out of luck. Instead of tail wagging greetings at the end of the day, my husband was rewarded with what became known in our house as “sh*ts of defiance”. The two of them were in a perpetual competition for alpha dog status. To this day, I’m not sure who won.

After my oldest was born, the wiener dog got worse. Older. Crabbier. Presumably, in more pain. So after a couple of close calls, we decided when Carmen was born that we couldn’t risk it. We already knew that the wiener didn’t like to be beat over the head by a toddler armed with a remote control, so we had to find a solution.

A solution known as moving to Grandma’s. This is not a euphemism. He actually moved to my mom’s.

So, Carmen has grown up in a dogless house. This means she loves the neighbor’s cat who essentially lives on our deck, but is totally freaked out by dogs. Mostly big dogs. But, dogs in general. So, instead of a dog-loving easy going kid, I have someone who will grow up to be the weird cat lady at the end of the street.

Her fear of dogs provides some minor challenges when we hang out with friends. Most of our friends love dogs. Most of them have dogs. Big dogs. Big dogs that, who through no fault of their own, get shut outside or in back bedrooms when we come to visit.

This weekend we are going camping with friends. Both couples have, and will be bringing, their dogs. One is a big dopey, lovable lab. No problem. The other one is a giant, black, 140-pound Newfoundlander. She is also a big, dopey, lovable thing. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. And, in Carmen’s mind…clearly the antichrist.

So, when we went to our friend’s this weekend to plan the camping details we decided we needed a plan. How were we going to get through the weekend without Carmen clinging to me the entire time?

And, then, like a genius, the solution came to me.

I told her the dog was a pony. I mean, really, she looks like a Shetland pony.

Or free time away on vacation.

This is how I feel about the 10-day vacation we arrived back from two weeks ago. I was (ahem) lucky enough to come back to piles of work, piles of laundry, piles of mail.

Ugh.

Since I have arrived home, work has been insanely busy. In-sane-ly. This has been compounded by an average of 6 hours of meetings since July 9th. Oh, how I wish this was an exaggeration. It’s actually probably more of an underestimate, Thursday I was booked for 7 ½ hours of meetings. 

Double ugh.

Then, my lovely two-year-old, decided that she would get an ear infection and contract a 102 fever requiring that my husband and I each only work half days last Monday and Tuesday. Sometimes I seriously wonder if my boss actually believes me about my children’s perpetual illness. Or as one of my friends at work lovingly calls them “little Petri dishes of pestilence”. 

I reacted to all of this insanity by acting uncharistically like a maniac. I drove my staff crazy, my husband crazy, my kids crazy, probably even my therapist is crazy at this point.

The rest of my life is nuts, too. In a good way, but nuts nonetheless. Preparing for an upcoming camping weekend, spending lots of time with friends, prepping for Carmen’s birthday party.

So, tonight, I left the office as soon as possible. This means I left at 5:15. Arriving home, I had the girls help me make pizza for dinner (thank you Trader Joe’s ready-made pizza dough), cleaned the dishes, changed all of the sheets, took out recycling, sorted six loads of laundry (and pretreated all the clothes with stain remover).