Song and Dance

Nighttime at my house isn't very restful.

Oh, some nights I conk out quite easily and sleep really deeply and well, though this is usually when my husband is home and I've popped a couple of Benadryl.

Sometimes I'm awakened ever so gently by this guy snuggling up on the pillow next to my head, purring sweet lullabies in my ear.

Other times, I'm rudely awakened by a tiger pulling my hair - hard.
Elmer will pull until I finally stumble out of bed and feed him.

This lovely little lady usually sleeps on my feet all night. This doesn't really bother me, as I've grown used to it over the past 8 years. But Fern is a nibbler, and an emotional eater, and most nights, usually between 2-4, she awakens from a stressful dream and simply must have food.

Now.

Fern doesn't poke or prod me, however. She has a knack for finding crinkly things - a magazine on the floor, perhaps a kleenex box, or a pile of books, and she rattles them.

Scratches at them.

Paws and mauls them.

Until finally, I stumble out of bed, go to the food bowls, and feed her.

The main problem I have with these two is that usually the food bowls aren't even empty.

They don't bother to check first, but need just a couple pieces of fresh crunchy added to the top.

I think they're testing me to see if I really do love them.

Many people have suggested shutting the cats in the basement or at least closing my bedroom door. But I love the snuggling and the purring, and besides, Fern's crying sounds just like a baby - something I cannot ignore.

There's also the small matter of adding a litterbox in the basement, and you know, we already have 9 litter boxes and I just don't want any more.

Also, there was a small incident a couple of years ago when the cats had access to the basement. We never determined who was to blame, but let's just say I don't want to clean up a mess like that again!

Then there's this character.

Wally never used to be a problem at night, but now he's an old man.

And everybody knows old men need to pee a lot.

And I mean every few hours.

We take him out multiple times each evening and try to have the last time be at least 10 p.m., but long about 4-ish, Wally feels the call of nature.

Let me tell you, it must be a siren song, because there is no denying it.

Wally has these little tiny feet at the end of his long, skinny legs, and even when his claws are properly trimmed, his prancing up and down the hall sounds just like tap-dancing. I know it would be better if I'd just get right up and take him out, but usually by this time, I've been up a time or two already and am desperately clinging to the hope that he'll settle down for just another hour or so.

Which means there's a good 15-20 minutes of tap-dancing up and down the hall, in and out of my room, and even down the stairs and back up again.

Why don't I just kennel him?

Well, Wally was kennel trained when a

puppy, but it's been years now since he's been in a kennel, and I think it would freak him out, especially now that one of his medications causes anxiety.

And thirst.

Now, if I'm really lucky, I can either sneak him outside quickly and get back to bed without waking up this character.

Yep.

Because when this guy wakes up, my day has officially started.

Even if it's 4:30 a.m.

Gus is only 8 months old, and honestly, I treat him more like a baby than the sweet, adorable, little Gussie-wussie... ahem, you see what I mean.

So, if Gus awakens, it's outside we go, which is a bit of a process, as he wants to stop and sniff every little scent along the way. Plus, basset hounds are not known for their stair-climbing proficiency.

So, this morning, at the insistence of my very patient daughters, I decided Gus would just have to go back in his kennel until I wanted to get up. Good for me, right? I could go back to bed and get a couple more hours of shut-eye.

Except for one small thing.

When a puppy has been treated like a baby, the puppy acts like a baby.

And Gus was not happy to be alone in the dark when it was morning, for goodness sake.

So, he howled.

He howled in that most desperately mournful way only a hound dog can howl.

For two hours.

Straight.

So, last night, between the hair-pulling, the tap-dancing, paper-rattling, and singing, I did get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep.

And people wonder why I nap.

Oh, and in case you're wondering: no, the sun is not yet up at 4:30.

Untarnished-silver, plus one

While filling out some paperwork (an attempt on my part to track my spending habits), I noticed the date. Well, I noticed that it was July 27, which meant a whole change in my late afternoon plans, as today is the deadline for high school registration.

For some reason, I couldn't quite believe that it actually is the 27th - no particular reason popped into mind, it’s just that I thought today was Wednesday, but it’s actually Thursday.

No wait, it’s Wednesday.

It’s just that I thought the 27th was Thursday, not today.

Which really is Wednesday.

And after checking online, it really is the 27th.

Then it hit me.

Why I should have remembered this date.

It’s one of the most important dates of my life.

And I totally forgot.

Today is my 26th wedding anniversary.

Now, I know the stereotypical sitcom version of the forgotten anniversary involves the forgetful, contrite husband frantically dashing out to the gas station at midnight to come back with some pitiful gift for his infuriated wife.

But I have no fears in that regard.

In fact, I bet my husband, who is away all this week on business (sweating in the cornfields of Nebraska, the lucky guy), hasn’t remembered either.

And I’m not the least upset.

In years past, especially during those crazy, child-intense years, with a traveling husband and 4 children under 10, I might have been a little perturbed. Especially with the out-of-town part of the equation.

Let’s just say I’ve mellowed with age.

And I think my marriage, too, has mellowed, ripening like a fine Chilean wine.

(Do wines ripen? Maybe they age, which only goes to reinforce the image. Oh, and I’m still a bit of a non-conformist - I know it’s supposed to be a “French” wine, but frankly, most of the wine we drink these days, unfortunately, comes out of a box and any bottle we splurge on is much more likely to come from south of the equator than from across the pond.)

But, as I was saying, my marriage fits me like a comfortable glove. You know how leather gets softer as it’s worn and comes to fit every digit like a second skin? That’s how I feel about my relationship with my husband.

We trust each other so completely, love each other so enormously, that most of the time we just really enjoy each other. There’s very little strife, we laugh at each other’s foibles, and finish each other’s sentences.

Never for a second do we doubt our love for each other. And instead of fancy dinners out or expensive jewelry, or this year, even flowers, we show our love for each other in the every-dayness of our lives together.

Michael makes the coffee for me, indulges my crazy love of animals, and does an enormous amount of housework. I cook him fabulous meals (most of the time), and when I’m unable, he steps up with his famous nachos or homemade pizza. I like to seek out unusual beers for him to try, share books I know he’ll like, and give him the things he would never indulge in for himself (um, like new shoes).

We share the everyday stresses of parenting, bill paying, and politics.

If ever there were soul mates, Michael and I are it. Or they. You know what I mean.

So, yes, I forgot my 26th anniversary, and far from being a sign of a failing marriage, it is a sign of the strength of our vows to each other and our commitment to each other. It’s not taken-for-granted, but rather, is such a part of myself, that I don’t need to mark it with hoopla.

Instead, I’ll marvel at the passage of time, all those wonderful years together, and look forward to many, many more with the man of my dreams.

And I’ll sure be glad when he walks through the door Friday evening.