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August 2012
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October 2012

It's like that old saying - gross ears, sweet heart.

I took Carmi to the vet today, which is always good for a laugh. The vet's office seems to exist in a totally different universe, where money is reserved for spending on your pet, and morality is measured in how readily you cough it up.

I love my dog. I buy her food and never kick her on purpose. (What? It's not my fault she likes to lay by the side of my bed EXACTLY where I put my feet down when I get up to pee. I'm not TRYING to kick her, and I alway alway pet her and apologize, even though it's not my fault.) However, it rankles a bit that I can NOT step foot in that office without emerging $300 poorer. Tonight I was explaining the itemized bill to Clay, and I read the line about the "Cytological Exam" and he thought I said "Psychological Exam" and I thought he was going to be apoplectic. I don't blame him. You could come to expect something like that from the universe of the vet's office.

Anyhow. Carmi is fine. She's got some arthritis in her hips, and a bump on her leg that is probably not a tumor (shouldn't a biopsy tell you something more than "probably not a tumor"? Isn't that the POINT of a biopsy? Because I could have come up with the same amount of information without even using a needle or microscope. Wait - I DID). She needs some exorbitant blood work to make sure her liver and kidneys and whatnot can withstand the medication that will make her hips feel better.

Oh, and she has a yeast infection in her ears. 

So that's good news, because it means she's not deaf, just gross. 

Apparently, though, ear yeast grossness doesn't just happen, and since Carmi no longer frolics in rivers or ponds, this suggests she probably has seasonal allergies. As the vet was explaining this to me, all I could think of was the woman I worked with twenty years ago, who had persistent yeast infections, and used to come to work and graphically describe the cures she was trying, like douching with yogurt, which seems...unwieldy. So today I sat there in the vet's office, thinking about this woman and wishing I could find her and let her know that her problem all along was seasonal allergies. Um...vaginal seasonal allergies, I guess. It's possible I didn't follow what the good doctor was saying quite as precisely as one might hope.

I was also thinking that this means that Raphael and I are officially the only ones in the house without seasonal allergies, and this makes us the champions of the world. Word.

Tonight I took out Carmi's ear medicine, which comes in a bottle with a long and threatening looking dropper. I showed it to her and asked her nicely not to bite me. Then I put her in a head lock and administered the drops, muttering that if I were her, I would TOTALLY bite me.

She did not bite me. 

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Because she may be gross about the ears, but she is the sweetest at heart.

Sophia picture dump - because she's the only one who will let me post pictures of her anymore.

The other day we were were walking along, on our way to storytime at the library, and Sophia ordered, "Take a picture of me walking here."

So I did.

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I'm not even sure why, except that she seemed so sure that's what should happen. 

She's usually sure about what should happen.

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She loves the trampoline. For the jumping...

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...and the drama.

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Of course, drama happens everywhere. Today she wore a sparkly pink princessy dress. When we walked into the library, a man exclaimed loudly to his little son, "Oh LOOK! There's even a PRINCESS at the library!"

And Sophia curtsied and gave him a regal twirl. As we walked away, she murmured to me, "I did a twirl. I'm VERY good at that."

And indeed she is.

But what she's possibly best at is bed hogging.

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Seriously, can you imagine why Clay and I dread the pitter-patter of her little feet at night? Good lord. 

Also, I love that her pajama top is on backwards, and instead of bottoms, she's wearing a pair of butterfly bloomers that she loves beyond all reason.

She is just. so. three. And just so Sophia.

And then there were two.

For the last month or so, Max has accosted me - daily - to make me stand back to back with him and have someone check to see if he's taller than me yet. I roll my eyes and oblige, unafraid of his obsession, because I have a comfortable half inch on him. At least. 

Make that a quarter inch. Still.

Today, while I was making breakfast, Max walked up to me and did a double-take.

"I'm taller than you. I'M TALLER!" he shouted.

"Pffft," I replied, ever the loving, supportive mother.


We did, but the only other person nearby was Sophia, and she wasn't a huge help, because she glanced at us, back-to-back, frantically patting each other's heads, and announced that SOMEONE should get her some MILK before she DIED of THIRSTY.

I was unconvinced of Max's sudden tallocity. I was unconcerned. I announced we would wait for an arbiter to settle this.

Tonight Max hauled me into the living room and begged Tre to check us. Tre was likewise unimpressed, this not being the first night he's been forced into the role of height judge. Max and I pulled off our shoes, and even our socks, in the name of fairness. As we lined up, though, I saw Tre's eyebrows make surprised motions. 

He walked over to us, placed his hands on our heads, and stood there, silent.

"WELL?" I said.

He just looked at me and smiled. 

If you need me I'll be googling "post 40 growth spurt." If you need Max, he's grounded until May.