2 States + 650.2 Miles = 1 Common Passion

Exactly one year ago today, my family was wrapping up a whirlwind trip to Disney.

The fam at Disney (2013)

In our four days in Florida we traversed all four Disney parks; braved every coaster worth riding (including Everest three times); took the obligatory photos with us each donning mouse ears; watched a fake Indiana Jones blow up some fake stuff and outrun a fake boulder; rode (and got stuck on) the onetime state-of-the-art monorail; enjoyed over-priced, over-cooked burgers and under-cooked turkey legs; and reveled in the mystical magic of the creepy, squawking birds of the Tiki Room (yep, it's still my favorite attraction after all these years).

It was an exhilarating, exhausting, and sometimes exasperating vacation. But as we left the sunny, 80 degree temperatures of Orlando to return to the dreary, rainy 30-somethings of Raleigh, I turned to Jack and said, "You know, I could really get used to this."

It was a throw-away statement. And I didn't really give it another thought until today.

But today, precisely one year after that family trip to Orlando, I found myself at a Disney resort again -- this time for professional reasons. 

As I was walked to my car after the National Association of Independent Schools (NAIS) Annual Conference, those same, sunny, 80 degree skies greeted me.

And again I thought, "You know, I really have gotten used to this."

Beautiful weather not withstanding, this had a much deeper meaning. 

Since last year's family vacation to Orlando, an unexpected chain of events quickly dominoed into me taking a new job in Tampa -- just a one-hour drive from the Magic Kingdom. And thanks to my supportive husband and children, we all have landed on our feet here in the Sunshine State. 

Except for the Newf -- he's landed flat on the floor. He barely gets UP on his feet here. It's just too damn hot.

Newfs hate Florida

These last couple of days at the NAIS Annual Conference, not unlike our Disney vacation, have been exhilarating and exhausting -- but in a very different way. 

It's given me time to reflect on the last year and on how my career path rapidly wound its way a full 650.2 miles between my home state and my new state. 

I'm still not sure I have all the answers as to why this move made sense. And just like our Disney vacation and the NAIS Conference, this journey has been both exhilarating and exhausting.

But this conference did affirm why I have enjoyed, and continue to love, working in schools.

This conference, much like great schools, pushes you to ask tough questions and examine your own work under a microscope. And I was just one of thousands of people at this conference who were focused solely on making education better for our children, now and in the future.

We hear constantly how our educational system is "broken" and how we're getting passed by other countries in the way we prepare our children for tomorrow's challenges.

2014 NAIS Conference

What was happening at this conference, though, was everything that is right with education. Collaboration, creativity, critical thinking, communication, and most importantly, improvement -- on behalf of all our children.

As with any job -- any career -- some days are better than others. There are ups and downs, frustrations and disappointments. But these days and moments are the exception and not the rule when you work in a place that is filled with people who are passionate for their mission. 

I see the rule each and every day at my job -- in the students my school serves -- and in my own children, LJ and Julianna, who have been blessed to attend two outstanding private independent schools and learn from dozens of passionate, exceptional educators.

No doubt, our schools -- both public and private -- are not perfect. Certainly, we're far from it. But a passion for putting children first?

We could all really get used to this.

'Tis the Season

A couple of days ago a mysterious letter arrived in the mailbox. I say "mysterious" because I couldn't imagine why I was receiving a type-written, stamped letter from my 8-year-old daughter. And it was addressed to "Mrs. Penny  Rogers". Quite formal ... and rather curious.

I quickly made the connection that her third-grade class was learning to write persuasive letters. Still, I was amused - and mildly disturbed - by the letter's content.

Dear Mom, 

Please, please, please can I have an iTouch. I am almost NINE YEARS OLD! ... It's only fair that you let me have the iTouch. You say yourself that I am very mature!!" I promise I wouldn't let Indy get it ...

Julianna & Indy

With Christmas just around the corner, Julianna wasn't taking any chances. She wanted to cover all the bases and make sure she got her point across to the ultimate gatekeeper of gifts. She knows that going straight to Santa isn't enough ... I've made it pretty clear that I have a direct line to the Big Guy and that ultimately, Mom & Dad make the decisions about what St. Nick delivers under the tree.

Julianna's letter -- which is pictured in its entirety at the bottom of this post -- was creative if not persuasive, and it now hangs on our refrigerator.

It will stay there through the holidays, and maybe even longer.

Her letter hangs there as a reminder. It's a reminder of all the blessings I have in my life. Health, family, home, job, food ... the list goes on and on.

(Notice I did not include the Newf on this list. He still rates as more of a curse than a blessing. Did you know that both Christmas tree ornaments and dreidels make fabulous doggy snacks?)

But I digress ...

The arrival of Julianna's letter particularly struck a chord with me because, earlier in the day, she delivered a holiday gift to her teacher. We attached a note to the gift that said, in the teacher's honor, we had made a donation to the Food Bank of Central and Eastern North Carolina.

These two notes -- Julianna's letter and the holiday gift for her teacher -- were very much at opposite ends of the spectrum.

My daughter, despite her eloquent and flawed argument, does not need much of anything. And she needs that iTouch just about as much as she needs any of the other gifts that Santa will be bringing to her this Christmas ... which is to say, not at all.

But there are little girls her age across our nation, some who also have fabulous curly hair and big blue eyes, who do have real needs this holiday season, and year round.

According to the Food Bank's website, "in central and eastern North Carolina counties alone, more than 500,000 people struggle each day to provide enough food for their families". The small donation I made in honor of my coworkers and my children's teachers will provide 200 meals for those in need. But this is only a fraction of the 1.4 million meals the Food Bank hopes to raise for its Holiday Meals Drive before Dec. 31.

The way I figure it, for the same cost as an Angry Birds download or a few iTunes songs, I can make an impact that will spread beyond the virtual world and into the real one.

Happy Holidays to all of you, and if you can give even a little bit to the Food Bank or your favorite charity, I encourage you to do so.

We have much for which to be thankful, and after all, 'Tis the Season!

Julianna's letter

Food for Thought

On the list ranking dogs by intelligence (yes there is such a list), Newfoundlands come in at a paltry #34.

To put this in perspective, they rank just above something named a Clumber, and slightly below something called a Bouvier Des Flandres.

To be honest, I'm not thrilled about my puppy ranking beneath some breed that sounds like a French porn star. But I also can't really argue that Indy's been unfairly rated or even the least bit misunderstood.

It's nearly impossible to defend the intelligence of a creature who sucks up anything in its path like an industrial-strength Shop-Vac.

When Indy ate the doormat on our deck, dozens of rolls of toilet tissue, and the daily paper, we chalked it up to puppy play.

We he consumed an extra-large box of candied sour trout, a gherkin pickle, a warehouse-sized log of goat cheese, and 17 chili peppers, an unripe tomato and several overgrown cucumbers from our backyard garden, we figured it was a canine culinary oddity. 

When he scavenged our windowsills licking up dead flies, combed the neighborhood streets for dried earthworms and goose poop, and devoured a common toad he caught outside, we thought it was just his Newfie instincts at work.

When he snatched my retainer from the bathroom counter and gently gnawed it to a warped and unusable mess, we assumed he had a thing for plastic (how else to explain the half dozen or so fang-marked cups we've found lodged beneath our sofa).

When he shattered a glass lantern on the deck and then proceeded to chew the broken shards ... well, we knew he was just stupid.

(And I haven't even discussed the video game, pillows, pairs of scissors, kitchen utensils, pencils, stickers, toothbrushes, 2 porcelain bowls, stuffed animals, winter boots, remote control, 3 fuzzy blankets, pet frog, Christmas tree light strands, action figures, flower pots, garden hose, kitchen timer, patio table, gingerbread house, matches, dreidel, and ADHD medication that all have served as bedtime snacks).

It may be divine intervention. Could be survival of the fittest. Or perhaps it's just dumb luck. But to date, Newfus has managed to eat all of this without harming himself.

A couple of weeks ago, just after Jack returned from a winning trip to Las Vegas, Indy swiped his wallet off the counter. I caught the Newf on the area rug, money scattered, Visa card in his muzzle.

There may never be a more apropos metaphor for a Newf -- or a more disturbing epiphany for his owners -- than to find him eating your credit cards straight out of the wallet. 

Touche, Indy.

This past week, Indy ushered in a new era of puppy consumables. Unsatisfied by his previous conquests, the Newf stalked our downstairs in search of flashier, more expensive household items to destroy.

Indy didn't need to look far. He found glory in the form of two digital devices -- my new iPhone and a cordless handset lying on the kitchen table that was just taunting him ... begging him to taste it.

Fortunately Apple's trademark bumper -- which Indy mangled -- kept him from doing any major damage to my iPhone (prevents antenna problems AND thwarts Newf attacks)!

But our cordless phone was not so lucky.

Our irritation and frustration quickly turned to concern when we realized that he had punctured one of the phone batteries and was therefore at risk of ingesting battery acid.

As all good pet owners do, we immediately consulted a trusted Newfoundland expert ... Google.

Here's what we found:

"If battery fluid has been ingested ... The dog will generally drool heavily."

Glancing at Indy -- standing by the water dish with streams of saliva pouring from his jowls -- we were dismayed.

And confused.

Newfs may not rate particularly high on the intelligence scale, but if there is one thing at which they are unrivaled, it is their slobber.

Another Google search instantly set our minds at ease.

"Male Newfs may be hardheaded, and they also pant a lot, drink a lot (sometimes dunking half of their head into their water bucket), and are champion droolers."

With Google knowledge coming to the rescue once again, relief set in.

The acid disaster had been averted, and we knew that Indy -- while maybe not the smartest dog -- was going to be just fine.

Well ... at least until we plant next year's watermelon crop.

Life is a Highway

It was an out of body experience. Or maybe it was in slow motion. Or it could have just been that time seemed to stand still.

Apply any cliche you want to, but it was certainly not your ordinary rest stop.

On our way back from the Woolly Worm Festival in Banner Elk last weekend, we had to pull off of I-40 near Winston-Salem. Some luggage in the back of our SUV had slipped and was crowding Julianna, so we exited the interstate and edged onto the right side of the shoulder about 50 yards from the highway.

Jack opened the tailgate and, just a few moments later, I heard him scream, "Indy, NO!"

Indy must have mistaken "NO" for "GO" because I jumped out of the car just in time to see him shoot straight down the exit ramp like a 100-lb black, furry bat out of hell.

With Indy hurtling at full speed toward his certain demise, a car headed up our exit ramp. Jack waved his arms frantically and the car slowed to a stop, but Indy was not to be denied his date with destiny. Making a sharp right, Indy headed off the exit ramp and across the median directly for the highway.

There was really nothing Jack and I could do but stand helplessly and call his name. This was puppy play, and the "come" command was falling on deaf ears as he bounded closer and closer to I-40.

But he's just a puppy, you say? Surely you could have caught him, you say? How fast can an oversized 8-month old bear be, you say?

Now I do realize that Newfs are not known for their grace or their speed. But for those who believe that giant breed dogs can't move fast, I offer you Indy.

No, really, I offer you Indy. He's already house-trained and I'll even throw in a bag of dog food for free.

My mom calls Indy the fastest dog she's ever seen. Of course, that assessment is based on the time he tore away from her grip to run down a motorcycle in our neighborhood.

Indy may not actually be THE fastest dog ever, but he was certainly fleet-footed enough to escape our middle-aged, out-of-shape efforts. So, clinging to hope alone (and with Newfie fur and slobber clinging to me), I yelled:

"OVER HERE, INDY!"

He immediately stopped, turned and started racing back toward me.

Knowing that I only had one shot to wrangle this steer, I crouched into sumo position and decided I was going for it.

This was my goal line stand. My now or never. My one shining moment.

This was my chance to tackle the Newf.

What came next is a bit of a blur.

There was a collision, a cloud of gravel dust, and a splatter of drool flying through the air.

Then Jack swooped in to latch leash to collar. The near nightmare was over and the lone casualty was a small cut on my knee.

I can only imagine what this whole episode looked like to those watching from their cars. And I do wonder if any 911 calls were placed from drivers on I-40 who reported seeing a miniature black bear attacking a woman on the side of the road.

As we walked an out-of-breath Indy back to our SUV, the driver of the first car that had stopped to avoid hitting him on the exit ramp gave us the "thumbs up" sign and then continued on.

But the next car in line stopped and the driver rolled down her window.

"Everyone okay?" she asked, as she peered from under her sunglasses.

I nodded, smiled, and said, "Yes, thanks."

She just shook her head, pushed her sunglasses back into place, rolled up the window and drove away muttering one four-letter word ...

"Newf."

It's Not Easy Being Green

Jack described it as a murder scene. And, in a sense, it was. If our puppy were on trial, he would have been found guilty on one count of frog-slaughter, and another of attempted ingestion.

While Jack was working in our home office on Friday morning, Indy was sniffing out some mischief -- and a snack. He found both in LJ's room, on a three-foot-tall bookshelf.


When Jack realized that Indy was nowhere in sight, he sensed trouble and ran upstairs just in time to find Indy trotting out of LJ's room with a stream of drool trailing from his jowls.


What exactly transpired we will never know for sure, but here's the evidence that was scattered across the carpet: a cracked plastic aquarium; one empty bag of frog food pellets; one bloodied puppy tooth; one dead African dwarf frog, and a second frog clinging to life. (Incidentally, I also found the shredded "How to Care for Your Frogs" brochure in the playroom. Apparently, Indy did not read the part about not eating the frogs.)

When Jack discovered the barely breathing "Croaky" struggling on his back, he scooped him up, delivered mouth to gill resucitation, refilled the busted tank, and plunged Croaky back into the water.

Sadly, "Hoppy" could not be saved despite repeated attempts with CPR and a mini-defibrillator Jack fashioned out of a AAA battery, fishing wire, and duct tape. In Jack's words: "There was nothing I could do. It looked like a trauma injury. He was kind of mangled."

Okay, so I realize I'm poking fun at the unfortunate and untimely death of my son's pet. You can report me to the SPCA if you want. But honestly, the whole situation is just ridiculous.

And although I may have found the circumstances regarding Hoppy's demise a bit laughable, the mere thought of telling LJ about his beloved, deceased Hoppy was not funny at all.

We decided to help ease the pain by buying another frog before LJ even knew about the incident. We knew we would have to tell him the truth, but we thought "Hoppy II" would help soften the blow just a little. Besides, we are not convinced that Croaky is going to make it. His rear leg sustained some sort of contact injury, so it remains to be seen whether Indy's great amphibian adventure will yield yet another victim.

I worried all day about how LJ would react. He still tears up when he talks about our beta fish, Max, who went to the great toilet in the sky nearly 6 years ago.

Losing a pet is never easy, no matter how small, or how slimy.

When LJ got home from camp, he noticed the frog's tank sitting in the kitchen and he knew something was up. We immediately, and as gently as possible, delivered the news that Hoppy had perished in an unfortunate act of doggy terror.

I'm not exactly sure how I expected LJ to respond, but it certainly didn't play out anywhere close to how I had anticipated it would.

It took all of us days -- weeks even -- to start healing from Viking's death in May. And I know that kids are resilient and this was "just" a frog, but still ...

Tonight, LJ instantly spiraled into the "5 stages of grief."

And he was finished with all 5 stages before you could even sing the first verse to "Froggy Went a Courtin".

8:24 p.m. - DENIAL - "He's not dead. He's right there! See him? I see two frogs!"

8:25 p.m. - ANGER - "Indy, I hate you!"

8:28 p.m. - BARGAINING - "Dad, how do you know he was dead? Maybe he was still breathing? What did you do with him?"

8:33 p.m. - DEPRESSION - Tears. Lots of them. Hugs. Lots of them. "Now I've lost three pets." More tears. More hugs.

And amazingly, at approximately 9:07 p.m., just 43 minutes after we'd delivered news that Hoppy had croaked, LJ entered the 5th and final stage of grief ... ACCEPTANCE.

"Dad, so if Croaky DOES survive his leg injury, can I get a third frog anyway? And a new tank? I really need a new, bigger tank."

Acceptance. And most important, resiliency.


This is a beautiful thing about children.

Each and every day we ask our children to face new challenges and not be afraid to fail. When they do fail, we implore them to try again.

And they do.

It happens in school, it happens in sports, it happens with their friends, and yes, it happens with pets.

Our children fall down, slap a band-aid on it, and move on.

They are the essence of resiliency.

There are two lessons to be learned in this whole frog debacle (besides, of course, keeping your aquatic pets out of your Newf's reach).

#1
 
"It's not easy being green." -- Kermit the Frog

#2
 

"Man never made any material as resilient as the human spirit. " -- Bern Williams


Amen to that. And may Hoppy's soul rest in peace.

The Ultimate Sacrifice

We all have those moments -- and they are few and far between -- that give us pause. That make us really stop and think ... that cause us to re-examine the "bigger picture."

I had one of those moments when I opened the refrigerator this morning.

I was so disgusted by what I saw that I squinted to make sure my vision was okay. Then I closed the refrigerator door and opened it again hoping -- praying -- it was gone. But it was still there.

The "it" that had rocked my world was a big glob of slobbery black dog hair stuck to the egg carton.

That's right ... my "aha" moment was thanks to our 5-month-old Newfoundland puppy, Indy, and his incredible penchant for delivering nasty, paste-like puddles of drool.

Indy arrived home in mid-April to much fanfare and with great big doggy shoes to fill. His predecessor, Viking, was by all accounts the perfect pooch (minus the shedding, barking, and separation anxiety issues). Sadly, Viking and Indy were together only for three weeks before Viking became sick and had to be put to sleep.

We chose to get a Newf, in part, because we knew another Lab could never replace Viking. We also chose a Newf because of the breed's reputation for being wonderful family dogs.

We did our research. Really, we did. We read the books, the blogs, and the bright, flashing neon warning signs. We asked all the right questions and carefully pondered the frightening answers.

We knew we were in for a beast of a dog (150+ pounds), a mountain of shedding, and an unsettling amount of saliva. We did not know, however, that Indy would turn our house and lifestyle upside down in a matter of months.

But this morning, it all came into focus.

Seeing the gooey fur ball stuck to the egg carton was like a slap in the face ... an ice water bath ... a punch in the gut. However you want to phrase it, it was a wake up call.

This dog, for all his sweetness and loyalty, is a vile creature. 

A few days before Indy came home for the first time, I read online that "You can't be a Newf owner and be house proud."

I now know what that means.

When he isn't dragging rocks, bugs, and sticks into the house, he has long strands of drool trailing from his muzzle. We are actually going to have to buy him a bib.

When he isn't shredding our door mats into millions of tiny scraps, he is dropping jet-black tumbleweeds on our beige carpets. I have already bought 2 vacuums since bringing him home.

When he isn't "paw painting" with mud on the glass doors, he is climbing INTO our dishwasher to help with the mess. Clean or dirty dishes, he doesn't discriminate. It's all fair game.

When he isn't eating goose poop, he is tipping his water dish over and then rolling around in the spill. Newfs are water rescue dogs, and I am convinced he thinks there is something to save at the bottom of his bowl.

When he isn't puncturing the leather furniture with his puppy vampire fangs, he is giving off a smell so disgusting that a complete stranger told us, "Your pup needs a bath." I have now purchased a doggy deodorizer, 2 kinds of fragrant puppy shampoo, and some sort of fur wipes that contain awapuhi, whatever that is.

Yes, this is my life. My life with a Newf. And this Newf came exactly as advertised.

But for all his nastiness, I wouldn't change a thing -- not his shedding, not his drooling, and not even his smell (well, okay, maybe his smell).

Despite his flaws and foibles, this big fur ball has made me shrug my shoulders and stop fighting the battle.

Dog fur in my yogurt? No problem. 

Drool stains on my freshly dry cleaned pants? Whatever.

High heel as a chew toy? You got it.

The reality is, none of it matters. All of that is just material. The carpet can be vacuumed. The drool can be wiped away. And the chewing is bound to get better at some point.

We chose Indy for our children.

After Julianna was attacked by a dog last year, it was important to us that she become comfortable around large dogs again.

We also knew that LJ would have a difficult time coping when Viking passed away, and we wanted to help ease that pain.

We wanted to find a breed -- for both of the kids -- that would be a good fit for them. Never mind the Newf's flaws, as glaring as they may be.

It's what I like to call the "ultimate canine sacrifice."

We parents do it all the time.

It's a family vacation to Disney instead of a second honeymoon to Hawaii. It's a sleepless night checking on a feverish child every couple of hours. It's a minivan instead of the much more stylish two-door roadster.

In our case, it's a Newf. A 6-10 year sentence with a 60-lb. bull in dog's clothing who will triple in size by the time he is 2.

But when the fur, the slobber, and the smell start to get to me, I just remind myself of that old adage ...

When life gives you Newf slobber, just make scrambled eggs.

Or something like that.