Going for the Trifecta

It's been a crazy week already, and it's barely Monday. Over the course of the past week, I've covered the morning, evening, and now the overnight shift at work. Last week I covered a couple of shifts for one of my coworkers as he took some vacation time, and then another one of my coworkers experienced a death in the family. So here I am covering BOTH of their shifts, and I don't think I'm going to make it. At least I'm getting paid.

I have a newfound respect for people who work overnights. Yours is a special breed, nocturnal dwellers able to sleep the day away and go on the twilight prowl, or in my current case, push a bunch of buttons to air programming NOBODY WATCHES. At least not anybody who is sane.

Have you ever tried to force yourself to go to sleep? It doesn't work too well. I willed myself out of bed extra early yesterday morning because I knew I'd have to go to bed in the early evening to prepare for my shift. Actually, I had to go pick Kyra up from her first ever sleepover party, so it worked out pretty well. I then kept myself busy for the rest of the day in a vain attempt to wear myself out. I vacuumed the Rex hair from the family room. I mowed the lawn. I picked up heaping piles of Rex poop. I pulled weeds and moved river rock from our backyard. I played soccer and softball with the girls. I dropped Kailey off at a birthday party and Kyra and I went to run errands and get a bite to eat. We returned home and I got my things together for my twelve-hour overnight shift.

I should have been exhausted, and I was. I finally fell into bed a little after 6:00 pm, then laid there, awake, for at least the next two hours. My body was tired, but my mind, wide awake. I thought about the day, our finances and the bills that needed to be paid, and continually performed the math to figure out how much sleep I would get if I fell asleep precisely this minute. As my sleep sum dwindled, my anxiety level rose. Dude, you've got to go to sleep! Brain, knock it off! I eventually fell asleep, although I'm not sure exactly when. But I do know that I slept no more than four hours, most likely around three, for my twelve-hour shift. Should get interesting. So good citizens of Tucson, should you experience long periods of black during your morning programming, do not panic. I'm just taking a little nap.

The Joys of Dog-Sitting

I was rudely awakened by a pointy-elbowed jab to the ribs at about 4:30 yesterday morning. "Honey? Honey!"

Don't you "Honey" me...I was in the middle of a deep satisfying sleep, and I'm pretty sure I was having a good dream to boot. Was I snoring too loud? Humping her leg in my sleep? Humping HER in my sleep? "What?" I growled.

"Would you go tell Rex to be quiet? He's been barking and crying for the past hour."

I love being a sound sleeper, and, no, it isn't just an act to avoid middle-of-the-night parental duties. I've blissfully slept through dozens of nightmares and peed and barfed beds, although I was usually awakened for peed/barf bed duty. I'll get up in the morning with absolutely no idea that Diane spent the night in one of the girls room because they were freaked out. Oops...hee, hee, hee. I hadn't heard Rex at all that morning. "Why can't YOU go tell him to be quiet?" I groused.

"Because he doesn't listen to me."

I know this defense well. It's the same reason I refuse to learn how to braid the girls' hair: if I learn how to do it, then I'll have to do it EVERY DAY. And I simply don't have that kind of time. This way, whenever the girls ask me to braid their hair like Mommy does, I reply as sweetly as possible, "I'm sorry, Sweetie, I'm just not as good at braiding as Mommy is." I guess what goes around comes around.

I pulled myself out of bed and stumbled to the laundry room where we had Rex penned. We've been dog-sitting for my in-laws the past few days, so far without incident. But this barking-in-the-middle-of-the-night nonsense needed to stop, and I was ready to play the role of alpha male to put the kibosh on it. I rounded the corner where I met Rex's sad, defeated eyes waiting for me at the gate, and discovered what was agitating him: three large piles of puke. Fan-TAS-tic! Being the amazing husband I am, I did not rouse Diane for barf duty, and began the cleanup process. Being the more amazing wife that she is, Diane got up anyway and offered moral support. She doesn't handle barf duty too well. I don't either for that matter, but sometimes you just do whatcha gotta do. I took Rex outside, cleaned up the mess, returned him to his room, and went back to bed.

I woke up again at 6:30 to get Kailey ready for school and found a couple of bile-puddles on the floor in Rex's room. Houston, we have a problem. All morning long, Rex just lazed around, completely lethargic and not at all interested in food, water or play. And when I let him outside to do his business, he'd pick a spot in the yard and strike a pose where his body became tense and rigid, convulsing to produce a half-dollar sized puddle of sludge. As I watched him struggle through his bowel movements, I thought, been there, done that. Buddy, I can FEEL your pain.

I called my in-laws to inform them of the situation as well as to get the number of their vet. Golden Retriever pups are notorious for eating crap they shouldn't, then having near death experiences. And Rex has already gone through this process once. I called the vet and they told me to bring him in, along with a "fresh stool sample". Come again? "A fresh stool sample; the fresher, the better." And how do you suggest...oh, never mind.

So thirty minutes before our appointment, armed with a gallon-sized ziplock freezer bag, I followed Rex into the backyard and waited for him to go through his spastic fece-squeeze routine. I started out with a sandwich baggie, which would easily have handled the volume of Rex's BM. But then I had second thoughts. What if I misjudged the trajectory of the discharge? I envisioned the neighbors calling 911 as they watched me run screaming across my backyard, wildly flailing at my hands while being chased by an 80 pound dog. Gallon-sized...that's the way to go. Rex sniffed around the lawn for a minute, found an acceptable spot, circled and assumed the position. I snuck up behind him and, gulp, slid the bag underneath him. I must have been too aggressive though, and he felt the bag. He twirled around with a "What-the-Hell-are-YOU-doing?" expression on his face. Seriously. "Sorry buddy," was all I could muster.

Rex, looking completely annoyed, moved over to the rocks and, again, squatted. I followed, this time being careful NOT to brush his ass with my oversized bag. That sounded really bad and should probably be rephrased. Anyway, he let loose and I collected every last disgusting, gloopy drop. Then I sealed the bag and ran inside to freak out the girls.

We arrived at the animal clinic where I handed the receptionist what I determined to be the most disgusting fecal sample ever collected. She grabbed the bag without comment or hesitation, albeit by the side rather than the top. She apparently had seen worse. The vet ran a bunch of tests, all of which were negative, and poked and prodded poor Rex. He could find no obstruction in his bowels, but couldn't rule out a bowel obstruction with any certainty without x-rays. He suggested two possible courses of action: an aggressive one which included the x-rays and intravenous fluids, or a conservative approach which included some medication, fluids and a mild diet. Ummm...conservative please. If we need to, we'll cross the aggressive bridge when we get to it.

I'm happy to report that the conservative approach seemed to work. This morning Rex was back to his nosey, playful self. And I'm even happier that he didn't die on my watch. In five days, I'll be even happier still, when Rex goes home. Grammy & Papa, I'm thankful that you let us stay in your home for two weeks while our water situation was being worked out, but now we are even!

On second thought, you never had to chase any of us around with a baggie, waiting for us to take a dump, so I think we may be due some weekend childcare.

The Birds & the Bees...and a Dog

Yesterday afternoon I was sitting on the throne, thinking great thoughts when the silence was shattered (as it usually is when I'm sitting on the throne, thinking great thoughts or reading the paper). "DADDY!! DADDY!! BEES!! BEES!! Daddy?"

"I'm in here!"

The door flew open and smacked into the doorstop. It was Kyra. She doesn't knock and I forgot to lock the door. "What are you doing?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.

"Three guesses and the first two don't count," I replied flatly. "Have you forgotten how to knock?" I asked for the millionth time.

Kailey joined her at the door, breathing hard. "Dad. There are bees, lots of them, in the backyard by the rose bushes."

"Can't you see I'm a little indisposed at the moment? I'll be there in a minute."

"What's indisposed?" Kyra asked with that same wrinkly expression. "Does that mean you're pooping?"

"I'LL BE THERE IN A MINUTE."

They got the hint, finally, slammed the door and ran off. Thinking time over.

This week our house has become a wild kingdom of sorts. On Monday, we inherited Rex, my in-law's ten month-old golden retriever, for ten days while they travel to see my sister-in-law's new condo. Rex is a good dog, as far as puppies go, but he's still a pup, and caring for him over the past few days has been like having a newborn again. Especially in the sleep department. He's been going to sleep fine in the evenings, but he wakes up early, especially since Kyra has been waking up early at the butt-crack of dawn. Rex, at the slightest sign of movement within the house, stirs to life, and if he sees you, it's over. He's fully awake and ready for the day. He wakes up the rest of the house as he slams his huge wagging tail against the doors and walls of the house.

Yesterday, Kyra told me the reason for her early mornings. "Stupid birds," she blurted out of the blue.

"Excuse me?"

"Stupid birds have been chirping in the morning and waking me up!" she explained. It's true that we seem to have an inordinately large population of birds nesting around our house this spring. There are nests on three corners of our house as well as in at least two bushes and a tree in the front yard. When I drive up our driveway and open the garage door, the front of the house explodes with the flutter of wings as birds of all shapes and sizes abandon their posts and head for cover. Cowards. Two finches managed to build a nest right outside of our back patio door despite our efforts to discourage them. We managed to drive them away for a couple of days, but they were persistent little buggers, and one morning I opened the shades to see a pair of beady little eyes peering down at me from a fully built nest. Finches 1, Humans 0.

So I've got dogs going nuts for attention, birds building nests and making a racket that's waking up my children, and now, it seems I have a bee problem. I finished my royal duties on the throne and headed out to the backyard. The girls had the house in full lockdown, and I soon found out why. I made a beeline (sorry, couldn't resist) to the rose bushes in the back corner of our yard, but was soon distracted by movement, a lot of movement, by the small fruit tree to my left. A couple dozen bees buzzed in spastic circles around the tree. I slowly and cautiously moved in to investigate. The Southwest is notorious territory for Africanized bees who will attack for no other reason than you're there. I moved to within about ten feet of the tree where I saw a football-sized collection of bees on the lower branches. That's just great. It was late afternoon, and since I knew bee colonies are migratory, I decided to wait until today to see if they would move on on their own.

This morning I went out to check on the bees, and found they had yet to move on. That brown mass in the upper center portion of the picture? Those are bees. Here we go again. So I got on the phone to get some quotes from bee removal specialists. The first call I made, the guy asked me whether or not they had been in the tree for twenty-four hours. I didn't think they had, and he told me to wait until the day warmed up to see if they would leave on their own and become someone else's problem. He said that if they were still there tonight, they were probably making my little fruit tree their home and to give him a call. I said okie-dokie, thanked him and hung up. I just returned from a trip to the back yard, and guess what? No bees. Whew! I'm kind of bummed though because I really wanted to SEE them leave. That would have been scary-cool. The girls would've lost their minds. And, hey, something's actually gone in my favor for a change! Now if I could only get my hands on some bird muzzles life would be perfect.

Game Night...A Hush Descends on the Crowd

Kailey had a whale of a game at the plate tonight, crushing the ball twice and going 2 for 2 with two doubles, 3 RBI (that's "runs batted in" for those living in a cave), and a run scored. Her second double nearly took the coach's head off. She easily could have had a triple on the play, except her league has a three-run per inning rule. Her double drove in two runs and ended the inning. She looked a little rusty on D tonight, bobbling a grounder at third and holding onto the ball too long while playing right field and allowing a run to score. Oh well, she more than made up for it at the plate, accounting for four runs in the Blue (Balls) Bandits 6-4 win.

Obnoxious Mouth Guy? I think he read my blog because he was amazingly calm, courteous and likable tonight, and not an ounce of St. Louis Cardinal paraphernalia adorned his body. Either that or his wife gave him an ultimatum: stop acting like an ass at softball games or never see her naked again. I like to think he read my blog, but whatever keeps the peace.

My Growing Addiction

I came to a rude awakening after posting my last blog entry yesterday morning, and this is my confession: I am a Site Meter junkie. Not a blogging junkie. A Site Meter junkie. I used to blog for the love of blogging. Now I blog to support my Site Meter habit. I post a blog entry then quickly check my Site Meter page to see how many tens of people visit my site. It's pretty pathetic, a desperate plea for attention and validation: Please read my vapid, unoriginal blathering. Please stroke my bruised ego. And if you'd like, you can even leave a comment! Oooo! Oooo! A visitor from New Delhi! Where the hell is New Delhi? It's in India, you idiot. I knew I should have paid attention in geography class. Maybe that Blogger Buzz article on blogging in Hindi isn't such a stupid idea after all?

I'll then spend the rest of the day checking my Site Meter page, at five minute intervals. Please, oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please...A VISITOR...from...Ynysddu? Don't any freakin' english-speakers visit my blog? Wait, Ynysddu is in the UK. Even geography class wouldn't have helped me on that one.

It's getting pretty bad. On any given day, if it looks like I'm not going to meet the average number of visits, I break out into a cold sweat. I think, maybe I can boost the numbers. So I'll go back to my latest post and publish it a hundred more times, the equivalent of pushing the elevator button repeatedly in an effort to get it to arrive faster. Does it work? Probably not, but at least I'm trying to do something about it! Pretty soon I'll be tiptoeing to my computer in the middle of the night, not to sneak in some porn like other demented dads, but to see if I've had any visitors from the other side of the planet doing a google search on "fathers tormenting children". I think I need help. Anywho, gotta get this thing posted. I think you know why.