Our Family Pet

We don't have pets. Except for a few sizable stuffed ones. We go for statement pieces in the stuffed variety. Indeed I made a statement of sorts when I stumbled into this thing in the dark in the kitchen the other morning. That he was wearing a jaunty cap made it no less frustrating that a rocking horse was standing between me and caffeine. The Mister sometimes accuses my home decor of being inspired by "Silver Spoons."

This beloved pal was delivered to our very small townhouse when we were expecting Big Sister. I was nesting and planning a darling palm trees and monkeys nursery. Perhaps stricken with an all-encompassing diagnosis my girlfriend coined "pregnesia," I thought a giant giraffe would be a perfect addition to our little home with way more people than bedrooms. You should know that a 5 foot giraffe wasn't on the top of the Mister's priorities. A neighbor came over to see what had just been delivered in a spectacular 6 foot tall box. I told her, "A five foot giraffe for the baby. I haven't told the Mister about it yet" just as the Mister drove up. Early. My neighbor whispered, "I'm going to stay to watch this" and stepped to the side just a bit to watch a hugely pregnant woman explain herself. Our pets are entertaining even upon their arrival.

But so far, we've not managed to acquire any pets with pulses. That's not how we saw things at the beginning. In fact, when the Mister and I were just starting out in Richmond, we used to talk about getting a Newfoundland. Again, probably somewhere deeply rooted in a statement piece, an enormous animal by any measure. We were so convinced this dog was for us. This is seriously how I remember spending some evenings: We would go to the bookstore, I'd get a coffee, and we'd browse the pet aisle, reading about this huge canine breed that was notably good with children.

In most every way, that seems like a million years ago. Maybe more.

With the uptick in talk lately about the possibility of our heading Stateside next, or at least not terribly long from now, I fear I'm about to go from international executive wife to cliche suburban mom before you can say "all day soccer Saturday." And with apologies to all my friends who love their vans, you should know that in the discussions recently, I said, "I might as well just get a minivan."

Anyway, soon to be home without any smalls even for a few hours during the week, it seems like the next cliche box to tick would be "get a dog."  Here's where what we thought would be the case starts to wildly diverge from our reality. And that's okay. Biggest Brother is allergic to dogs and cats. Although he cannot keep himself from petting them or being drawn to their presence. He, a devoted fan of the behind the scenes airport security shows, was very fretful that our luggage en route to Spain would be traipsed on by sniffer dogs and he'd have a reaction!

And if you know anything about the Newfoundland breed, or maybe dogs in general, they shed, drool, and have various bodily functions. Sometimes indoors. If you know how I at least aspire to maintain our home, these are vastly divergent ideas. International doggie quarantines and allergic child aside, the greatest single thing that will keep us from ever having an animal here is the potential messiness. Quirky and germphobic, maybe, but I'm honest: I'd have a much easier time with the various untidiness created by an infant. Still waiting for one to arrive in a basket on my doorstep. Darn security in our building!

The second summer I worked as a nanny for a boy about the boys' ages now, the family bought an adorable black lab puppy. The parents asked for my okay, too, knowing the puppy would be "mine" to care for during the day times. I have nothing but sweet memories of that tiny black ball nestled at my feet sleeping for what seemed like the entire summer.

So I'm all for puppies and dogs. But maybe growing up with animals no larger than hamsters, and having only endured the heartbreak of losing a 7 day old goldfish with the smalls, makes me fairly sure a real and furry pet isn't in our future. I can still hear Big Sister asking, "Where go Fippy?" in a plaintive notice of our beloved Flippy being found all too still and his fishbowl in the dishwasher.

That was terrible and we'd only known our beloved "Flippy" for seven days.

So. This Liberty pig. He's our pet. Maybe forever. Who could ask for more? He is sturdy, quiet, and clean. Enduring of being stepped and sat on. Stoic about being surfed on and dressed up, having wet hair drip on him and being "cleaned" by Baby Sister. This is frankly, my favorite kind of pet. And that's before I've even told you how he and his siblings have been lovingly created by a VERY small English company that positively dotes over their creations even after they've found homes.

I have promised the children that a replica of this pig will be the first house warming gift (even if for a dorm room!) they get from me. Their laughter over that prospect makes me want to be sure it will happen that way. I may need a paper route (or 4!) to make it happen but I'm gonna do it. I noted the cousins took a shine to him, too. Maybe they'll get one from me when they leave their nests, too.

Only In My Dreams

Growing up, my mother had a policy of not letting us tell our dreams.  Although I've not attempted to regale her with any in a few decades, we'll see if she reads this post.  I however, love hearing the kids' dreams and am fascinated by my own.  It is like going to your own little show every night.  What fun! Usually.  I used to fly in my dreams lots.  I noticed that often stopped when I was pregnant.  I would fret to the Mister that I was even too big to fly subconsciously.

So this blog post discusses a dream or two.  And not the aspirational kind.  If you are like my mother, feel free to skip this and know I'll be onto another subject in a few days.

Just like in the movies, last night I woke from a nightmare gasping, sitting straight up.  (Only I wasn't in full makeup, cashmere jammies, casually tousled hair and a flattering soft light.  In fact I had a ratty ponytail and a face smeared with a combination of Clearasil and various Olay wrinkle potions.  And no, my blog is not sponsored by either.  Yet.)

In my dream the children and I were on a bus on the way to school.  I looked at Big Brother and realized he was wearing feet pyjamas under his school coat.  I asked him if he'd even showered.  He claimed to have but I knew pjs wouldn't fly with the Head Teacher. And up to this point, this is entirely possible in real life.  Big Brother would gladly go to school this comfy.  It is nearly miraculous that he wears a tie every day. So this part could absolutely happen to me.  It is the next bit that woke me in fear.  In the dream I told the boys we'd have to hop off the bus, go home, and get Big Brother changed.  We quickly got off at the next stop with Baby Sister on my hip.  I turned around to gather the boys and cross the street for the return stop, only to discover Big Sister was still on the bus.  As it drove out of sight into the darkness.

I know why I dreamed it. Yesterday was a strange day of lots of odd comings and goings.  The big kids all went in different directions after school while Baby Sister slept in the stroller.  Biggest Brother came back late from a field trip, Big Brother went to Holy Communion class, and Big Sister went to a friend's to practice for the talent show.  For about 3 hours, there was lots of crossing busy London streets and checking my watch being sure I was in the right place at the right time, dropping off and gathering children.

Later I dreamed my landlord was hosting a party in our flat.  And changing my decor.  That creates in me my own special fright, but not enough to awaken me. It is so pitifully obvious what my subconscious is busy working through:  keeping track of my children on city streets, paying attention to one at the peril of another, and being a good hostess.  In that order.  I am not complicated.  Even in my sleep.

In terms of aspirational dreams though, I've started down that path.  I have begun to put out feelers for creating and installing store window displays.  I cannot imagine living in a better place to learn the trade and am hopeful that my immigration status (dependant visa) prohibiting me from earning money will make my insistence on volunteering a plus.  My ultimate goal would be even holding the staple gun for a designer creating a window at Selfridges.  The commute would be super.

Today is just the kind everyone envisions for London winter.  Grey, dark and wet.  A good day to take Baby Sister back under my covers after lunch and lure her into a long nap in my arms.  Filled with sweet dreams.