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.

Man on the Run

Our trip to Grandma's house in Greensboro last weekend ended with a bang. Literally.

As we packed up the car to head home, LJ streaked down the front hallway like a bat out of hell. If it had been the NFL combine, his draft stock would have sky rocketed.

Instead, with the storm door securely closed, LJ's face met the plexiglass with a sound that my husband described as an "explosion."

There was a fair amount of blood after impact, and he had a bruised ego, a headache and a sore nose for a few days. But considering the collision, we were lucky that nothing was broken -- either the door or LJ's nose.

LJ handled the blood, the pain, and the shock of the accident exceptionally well (although he did ask to "wear a mask like Psycho T because I'm a boy on the go"). 

Never one to miss a sunshine moment, Julianna dished up a positive spin on things -- even as we were in the midst of assessing the damage.

"Well, look on the bright side, Jack," she said. "At least you've added some red to your green and white shirt. That's the way to get into the Christmas spirit!"

Surrounded by bloody carnage, and my daughter offers fashion tips.

On the drive home, I glanced back at a resilient LJ, who was fully engrossed in his Nintendo DS while sporting a small piece of tissue stuffed up each nostril. I reflected on the potential catastrophes the kids had averted earlier in the day before LJ clocked in with the thud heard around the Triad.

While at Grandma's, the kids took full advantage of the snow that had fallen a few days before, using a small inner tube to sled down the tiny hills that line the property.

Although we were able to keep an eye on the kids by watching them through the windows, I must have gone outside a dozen times to issue various warnings.

"Not that hill -- it's too steep."


"Watch out for the ditch."


"Don't sled too close to the house."


"Don't push each other -- it makes you go too fast!"

Based on the Department of Homeland Security's Advisory System, my mommy radar was definitely somewhere between yellow and orange on the terror alert chart.

I held my breath with every trip the kids took down the hills, and I sensed catastrophe at every turn.

I was prepared for any number of disasters involving my children and the inner tube -- a hurricane, a landslide, perhaps even a tsunami. But I never sensed what was as plain as the daylight shining through a perfectly clean plexiglass storm door.

No matter you much you hover, nag, and plead, it just goes to show that, for even the most overprotective parent like me, danger lurks around every corner.

Or in this case, at the end of Grandma's hallway.

Who Asked You?

Less than 24 hours after I wrote about the kids still believing in Santa, LJ made me a liar.

On Saturday morning, he came downstairs for breakfast and said: "I'm confused. I went to ask.com and typed in 'Is Santa real?' and I got a bunch of different answers. And one of them said that it's just a character that parents made up to make their kids happy."

Here's the link if you want to see the response he got. (Of interest, note the "related searches" on the right-hand side that say "Is the tooth fairy real?" and "Is the world going to end in 2012?")

The ambiguity of the answers on ask.com only added to LJ's ever-increasing anxiety about whether to believe.

After talking him down from the ledge, I said: "If you think Santa is real, that's all the matters isn't it? Why do you need to know for sure?"

"I just need to know if I SHOULD believe or not," he said.

And he couldn't let it go. The rest of the day he peppered us with questions until we finally caved.

When we told him the truth, a look of relief washed over him -- and his smile was enormous. He seemed genuinely happy that he no longer had to wrestle with the answer to one of life's great mysteries.

Of course, finding out about Santa is like tipping the first domino in a long chain -- LJ then fired away with a litany of other questions:

Easter Bunny? - Of course, that's us too.

Tooth Fairy? - Yep, Mom & Dad. (and sorry about that time I forgot to leave the money)

Elves? Guilty as charged.

Leprechauns? Fake.

Reindeer? Real, but they don't fly.

Man on the moon? - Government hoax.

Elvis? - Still dead.

"But wait," LJ said. "Does that mean YOU are the ones who eat Santa's cookies?"

Suddenly, LJ saw an opportunity. And after swearing up, down, and sideways that he would not tell Julianna or his still-believing friends about Santa, we agreed to let him help us play elf.

At our house, there is no Elf on a Shelf. But there is a rogue band of sneaky little elves that come about once a week during December and leave goodies and make mischief around the house.

Julianna made an intricate little house for the elves complete with table settings, a Christmas tree, and stockings. Unfortunately, the shoe box she used for the elf house was from a pair of shoes I had intended to return to the store.

I can only imagine the look on the cashier's face at Kohl's when I ask for a refund and hand her the unworn shoes nestled inside an elf house.

Last night, LJ got his first chance to be Santa's helper. He had a blast taking tiny bites out of each of the marshmallows Julianna had left inside the elf house for the guests.

This morning, it was heart-warming to see LJ play along as Julianna discovered what the elves had done. It seems like he's taking a lot of pride in playing the role of big brother and he's relishing the chance to contribute to the magic of Christmas. I think, at least in LJ's case, the time was right for him to learn the truth.

And one other good thing has come out of this whole "ask.com" Santa fiasco.

When it comes time to tell LJ where babies come from, I know right where I'm sending him.

Lazy Claus is Coming to Town

LJ is in third grade, which means he's at the age where some of his friends have started questioning Santa's existence. I don't know the exact numbers, but I'm guessing at least 1/3 of his classmates are no longer "believers."

For Julianna, who is 6, Santa is still an absolute. There's no doubt in her mind that the big man will not only be visiting our house, but will also bring her a new American Girl doll, furniture for the American Girl doll, and a full wardrobe for the American Girl doll (who has already been named Kelly).

Hopefully, Julianna will not be too disappointed to learn, that, in these tough economic times, Santa may have to substitute some knock-off dresses from eBay and a doll-sized bunk bed from Wal-Mart. (Hey, Santa likes low prices too).

LJ, on the other hand, has been trying to rationalize whether Santa is, in fact, real.

The kid is nothing if not practical, so I think that deep down, he knows the truth. But he wants to believe, and so he's trying to convince himself.

LJ has noted a number of reasons why Santa must be real, the most recent of which -- if not for my Jewish guilt -- might have made me spill the elves' dirty little secret.

"Mom," he said, "Santa must be real because parents are too lazy to do all that stuff. And same with the Easter Bunny. You guys wouldn't get up in the middle of the night and hide eggs and get all those presents out. Parents are too lazy to do all that stuff just to make their kids happy."

"Besides, that would just be RUDE for parents to buy themselves all those gifts."

My reaction?

First I choked on my eggnog-flavored coffee.

Then I cursed in Yiddish.

But, finally, I let it pass. Santa and those creepy little elves would win this round.

As parents, we all know that, no matter how much we try to protect our children, they are still exposed to an inordinate amount of bad stuff via their friends, the Internet, and television.

Santa is one of the few pieces of innocence they have left.

Santa is all about goodness, magic, and giving to others. He may not be the true reason for the season, but he still represents a very important part of childhood.

So, at least for now, I'll keep Santa's identity all to myself. I think it's better that way.

Besides, I don't want to risk finding a lump of coal in my stocking on Christmas morning.