A Romantic Rumor

I grew up with a diaphanous father who floated above me like a caption bubble saying, “?”.

He was a romantic rumor, a previous chapter in my mother’s book of life, leaving behind no photos for his three little girls to frame and fawn over. There would be no frame hugging in this family. No searching his dark eyes for our own, or comparing the curve of our noses to his; no joy of discovering a trace of ourselves in his image, thus… answering our desperate curiosity. The only evidence of his existence was our existence.

My dad was an old movie reel flickering in my mind, with imaginary memories, conjured by a credulous child, intoxicated with prime time fathers, and aching for paternal adoration.

I was always comparing my invisible father to the other girls’ dads, which never worked out well for me. I suffered like an amputee with an inflamed phantom limb… finding no possible way to soothe it.

I felt that I had been gypped by life; everybody that I knew had two parents, but I only had one. I assumed that I was somehow to blame for my father’s absence, after all I was little girl number three, and in my little girl mind I thought that he was tired of daughters. I envisioned him throwing his arms up in defeat when I was born, and tromping off to find another family where he could have his very own little boy. Of course all of this was nonsense, but the actual reasons for him leaving were incredibly complicated; certainly nothing a mere child could possibly comprehend.

Father’s Day continues to be a holiday that I view from afar, like witnessing the customs of a foreign country. There is still an empty seat at the head of my childhood table, and a little girl waiting wistfully by the darkened window. She knows that he isn’t returning, but she’s found nothing else that could take his place.

Appreciate every moment that you have with your dad. Hug him, tell him you love him, and do nice things for him, for there are many children, both old and young, who have never experienced a fathers’ love and the joy and security that it offers.

For those of you who have known the void of a fatherless childhood, my message to you is this: Accept the vacancy in your heart as part of yourself; offer it honor and appreciation. You are the incredible person that you are, because of that vacuum. You have had to find your identity independent of a father’s influence. You have had to be brave and resilient during hard times, when a strong hand wasn’t there to guide you…or hold you.

Be proud of who you are, and of the family that you have…that coalition of love that worked doubly hard in order to fill in the gap left by your father. And remember, love is love, whether it comes from a male or a female, it doesn't matter because it comes from one source and will never leave you or be depleted. Love holds all things together.


This is a re-run of an old post, dedicated to those who never got to celebrate this day.

Jonesing on the Porch

Christmas in the trailer is so different than any before. It’s so quiet that I feel tempted to buy a used guitar, sit on the porch, and sing to the youngins. Of course I’d have to wrangle some youngins, because mine are oldins, but wrangling youngins might land me in jail. I remember the good old days when neighborhood kids were part of your extensive family, obligated to help you with your groceries, run to the store for you, and, yes, even listen when you sang.

The world has shifted, and for me, Christmas has shifted too. For those of you who don’t know this, we’ve recently moved from our 2500 sq ft home to a 300 sq ft trailer. We sold our furniture and stored our stuff. Actually, I was able to squirrel away an amazing amount of stuff in the cupboards, draws, and tiny closets of our tinny little trailer, but I have no idea where I’ve put most of them.

That’s kind of how I feel about Christmas this year. I have no idea where I’ve put it, or where TO put it, and this is making me blue. Not boohoo blue, but more of a brooding blue. I’m missing the familiar traditions, which I thoughtfully strung around my old Christmases, and because of this I feel a sort of vacancy inside. It’s like Christmas has gone out for a stroll, without telling me, so I’m here on my porch, wondering where it went.

I know that I have to start from scratch with Christmas, but it doesn’t seem fair, because it took me a lifetime to create the old Christmas. I feel totally polarized. Yesterday I stood in the middle of our trailer for 5 minutes holding a string of lights and then put them away because there was no place to hang them, and if that wasn’t crappy enough, I’ve been waiting over a year to finally have a working stove, so that I could make sleigh loads of holiday cookies, but now I can’t because I’m on a low carb diet, which was recommended by my cardiologist. “Oh” you say, “Don’t eat them. Make them and give them away”. That would be like telling a zombie not to go for the brains. I have no self control in such situations.

The truth is that I’m afraid to let go of my little holiday habits because the world has gotten so damn scary. My Christmas traditions helped to cushion me from all the chaos and clatter, like a soft pillow over my head, Christmas muffled out the discord. Okay, so maybe it was a bit limiting, even smothering at times, but I was willing to overlook it because, well…it’s all that I knew. But now my pillow has been taken away, and I’m jonesing on the porch, because that’s the only place I can string the Christmas lights.

I know I sound like a whiny ass baby, and maybe I am, but I’m hoping if I sit on my porch long enough I might discover something profound…that in the deep, Leah silence, I am being called to this very moment, where a powerful light is shining. Sort of my very own Christmas light, originating from a place that I’m sure I’ve been, yet I can’t name. A familiar place where Ma’s hot chocolate never grows cold, color crayons are perpetually pointy, and life is its own answer. A place where one needn’t look outside of their own full heart to find happiness, for love resides within, a generous love that desires to consume fear, hate, and indifference, and is capable of rocketing you into your incredible life every moment of every day. It is the reason for life, which also happens to be the reason for this season.

Wow! Where’d that come from? I must have been channeling George Bailey and Gandhi.

Happy holy days, people. May you discover that you are not as powerless and alone as you might believe, and that your small hands are actually God’s hands, waiting to ease the world’s woes. So go forth and be merry woe easers, and if you’re in the neighborhood stop by the porch for a little eggnog. I’d invite you in but...there’s no room at the tin. Ta dum dum.

Last Minute Tree

Art by: Leah Griffith

Last Minute Tree
By: Leah Griffith

I was about eleven when Alberta Hazard, took me along to help her buy a Christmas tree. It was the night before Christmas, pretty late to be buying a tree, but I was excited to go. This would be my first time breaking away from the nest and seeing how other people did Christmas—discovering that our family wasn’t the center of the holiday universe.

Although only eleven, I was Alberta and Rob’s babysitter, and a good one at that. I was old for my age, having no choice but to grow up quickly because of a complicated home life.

The Hazard’s had five kids back in the day when that was considered an average sized litter. They weren’t your conventional family. They had a fully stocked bar that took up their entire dining room and they kept a vicious Doberman named, Ranger, chained up in the kitchen. The children were well behaved, but who wouldn’t be with parents as stern as Alberta and Rob. They were whiskey serious—you could smell it each time they spoke.

Behind the bar Rob kept a leather strap hanging in full sight. The kids said it looked like a long black tongue waiting to give them a licking. It did. I felt bad for the Hazard kids. Their parents were mean, their dog was mean, and they spent most of their little lives on full alert—like deer sensing danger, tiptoeing around, trying not to piss off Rob, Alberta, or the dog.

When Alberta and Rob would leave for the evening, I’d spoil the kids, giving them “horsey” rides, sharing my snacks, and letting them choose which TV shows we watched. They loved the fun, and I felt like a mini god exercising my power of good over evil. That’s why I was excited to be able to have some say in what kind of Christmas tree they had. Their last year’s tree had been a boney disappointment.

Alberta wasn’t a big talker so we walked in silence, leaving me to watch the snow fall and wonder how something so delicate could make such hard crunching noises under my boots.

The guy selling trees was bundled up against wind, standing under a streetlight chewing on a cigar. Alberta spoke first, “Where do you keep the cheap trees?” Her words sounded crude, absent of holiday manners. Mr. Cigar was just as bad, not bothering to answer, but simply nodding his head, directing us to a dark corner where skinny pines roped in twine, were stacked on top of one another, looking more like a pile of hostages than Christmas trees.

I could imagine the flat line of disappointment in the kid’s eyes if we brought home one of those trees. Lord knows I was pretty familiar with that “let down” feeling myself, praying every night that my perverted stepfather would disappear from my life, only to find him at the breakfast table each morning fresh-faced and ready to rule the roost. I piped up, forcing out my words in big steamy breaths, “These trees are pathetic, Alberta. You guys need a pretty tree to go with that nice house of yours.”

There house was nice—on the outside, but on the inside it was as stark as a cell. Alberta wandered over to a “pretty” tree and lifted a branch, meeting it with her nose and sniffing as one sniffs a rose. I held my breath, afraid of breaking the spell. Dropping the bough, she hollered over her shoulder, “What’s this one cost?”

Alberta wasn’t a girly girl, she wore her hair pulled into a tight ponytail, carried a wallet like a dude, and had one eye that traveled, so you were never certain what she was looking at. She jingled the change in her jeans pocket, waiting for an answer.

“Oh that there’s a Blue Spruce, came all the way from Colorado. That one will cost you twelve bucks.”

“Twelve bucks for a tree on Christmas Eve? You’ll be burning them by morning. I’ll give you six.”

The man shuffled over to Alberta, and lit his already smoldering cigar, sucking and puffing, creating such a cloud that his head disappeared altogether.

“I’ll give it to you for eight, but that doesn’t include rope or me helping you tie it to your car.”

Alberta flipped open her wallet and lifted a perfect tenner out, handing it over to Mr. Cigar Face. He snagged the bill and quickly added it to an ample roll of green, handing her back two ones. “You might want to get your husband over here to help you…” But before he could finish his sentence, Alberta had already lifted the tree and was heading out, with me running behind.

It sure was a beauty, with thick fragrant branches, smelling like every kind of holiday happiness a kid could imagine. I took the light end while Alberta held onto the thickest part of the trunk. We made pretty good progress trudging through the snow along Main Street, passing store after store, their windows burning with holiday temptations, until Alberta’s good eye fixed itself on a neon sign, advertising that Archie’s Tavern was open for business on Christmas Eve.

The tree train stopped abruptly with an announcement from Alberta; “We’ll hoist the tree up here in this doorway, and go get a quick night cap. It will be our little secret.” And then she winked at me, sealing my fate as her co-conspirator.

The floor creaked as Alberta led the way through a section of small tables. Heads turned and nodded as she found us seats at the end of the bar. I felt as though I had entered a secret society where serious drinkers, perched like a sullen flock, drowned their troubles in booze. I had to fight the urge to spin on my barstool.

Alberta sipped her whiskey, half listening, as a guy sitting on her other side slur-whispered into her ear. I drank my Coke, glad to be on the end where no one could sit next to me.

A black haired lady in a red sequin dress was busy plunking nickels into the jukebox. Her rump shook to the music like a shimmery lure, drawing a skinny guy from the crowd who pulled her into a slow dance. I strained to focus my eyes, trying to see her face, imagining pretty, but instead finding the face of an old hag fit for handing out poison apples. My stomach twisted as my mind tried to adjust to what it was seeing, and I wondered if she knew what she looked like to everyone else, or if she even cared…if anyone cared. This was a different Christmas.

We made it back to Alberta’s by eight, leaving us plenty of time to decorate. Rob was passed out on the sofa, the kids were in bed, and the only creature stirring was Ranger, licking his bowl clean in the kitchen.

Wilson Pickett’s voice scratched over the hi-fi as we strung lights, and tossed tinsel. We worked like frenzied elves on deadline. Finally finished, Alberta plugged in the tree and shut off the lamp. I had to catch my breath because of the beauty of it—the icy shimmer of Christmas reflected off the tinsel—dancing over everything, including Rob’s sleeping face, transforming their harsh living room in sugar plum softness.

We rushed outside in our stocking feet to catch a glimpse of the tree through the window. It was Rockwellian perfect, fit for a holiday postcard. Alberta smiled at the warm vision she had created, and whispered, "Let's go wake up the kids."

I remember Alberta loading her arms with the three youngest, while I tugged at droopy limbs and whispered, “Come see”. We half-circled the tree, the children’s eyes wide, their voices hushed with wonder.

I could sense the spirit of Christmas standing there with us—the joy, the togetherness, and even though it was temporary, and things would surely go back to normal, Christmas was visiting the Hazard family, waking up little hearts to the message of divine love, and the magic of hope, and change.

The Hazard’s left their tree up until January 22nd that year. Alberta begrudgingly agreed to take it down because Rob said it was a fire hazard. The next two years they had beautiful trees decorated well before Christmas Eve, after that they moved away and I lost track of them.

I like to imagine that the Hazard children grew up and created memorable Christmases for their own families, and that my childlike input on that snowy, tree-buying Christmas Eve, was enough to make a difference for generations of Hazards to come.

It’s always the little things isn’t it?

ELR wishes all our friends a very Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, and a most Happy New Year.

May the blessings we wish for be the blessings we give.

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As a Christmas special, my novel, Cosette’s Tribe, will remain on sale for just 99¢ on Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Is There a Witch Hunt on Childhood?

My magical little niece Ember

This post isn’t going to be one of my usual esoteric romps. This one is more of a rant, but if I don’t let it out I just might explode.

I’m really grateful that I got to be a kid back in the 1960’s before society turned into a neurotic knot of fear. Much of my childhood wasn’t easy, but nevertheless I keep finding more and more sentimental old war stories to brag about, like being force-fed cod liver oil, having to walk to school wearing a dress in sub-zero temperatures, or being allowed to bounce freely around inside a moving vehicle without a seatbelt. Station wagons were my favorite because we got to hang out that big back window and make faces at the cars behind us.

We used an Etch A Sketch instead of a laptop, an Eight Ball instead of the Psychic Network, and rabbit ears instead of cable. At recess we used sticks as play guns and stole first kisses without being expelled and labeled as potential terrorists or sex offenders.

My dog, Chips, a Shepherd mix, followed me everywhere I went back then. When we played touch football my buddies would always toss me the ball knowing that no one would dare come near me because Chips would nip them in the ass. I shared every Hershey bar I ever ate with that dog and she lived to be 14.

Back then it was rare for a kid to be overweight because we were always outside playing, but today, because of poor nutrition and lack of activity, our children's health is seriously at risk. I’m not saying that our parents had it right, or that I don’t believe in protecting our kids, but our parents knew something that I believe this generation has forgotten, and that is how to keep things simple and use common sense.

I feel rather sorry for today’s children because they have unwittingly become the victims of a witch-hunt on childhood triggered by the exaggerated fears of some of the adults sent to protect them. “Jason,” who bit his Pop-Tart into the shape of a gun and said, “Bang bang!” is not the enemy. Sweet Bella, who stole a kiss from Ben, and then kicked him in the shin, is not the problem. These are not criminals. They are normal kids. Our kids.

The adults creating blanket rules that fail to take into regard the nature of children/childhood are the problem. When we allow fear to take the reins we lose our capacity to think clearly, which in turn affects our ability to use sound judgment—we become part of the problem, forfeiting our sense of community for a updated version of McCarthyism. I mean, what kind of person thinks it is appropriate to report a six-year-old to the law for stealing a kiss? Someone get a life please!

It is said that what we focus on expands. Well, I believe that today’s kids need something positive to focus on before we turn them into small counterparts of our society—fearful hypersensitive little tattle tales. In short—I think this country really needs to lighten up and smarten up. We’re stressing our children out.
No!
We’re turning them into the enemy.

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P.S For just 99¢ you can purchase my award winning novel, Cosette's Tribe, on Amazon and B&N! Get it now because there is just one more week left to this sale.

30 Nights of Solitude

Last night was my third evening home after 30 nights of solitude spent in a bed far far away. A month was long enough for me to form an intimate relationship with nocturnal privacy, where my thoughts were free to roam naked down the carpeted halls of my mind, bumping into only myself on the way to the bathroom. “Excuse me. Oh! It’s just me.”

It was a luxurious fling. A sprawling self-indulgence of fluffed pillows, and scrolling paragraphs — the creamy night light lulling my lids, my hands releasing my darling tome beside me, his pages butterfly-breathing beneath the ceiling fan, sharing my bed and my dreams.

This is where the needle scratches across the record because I’ve returned home to the city, where solitude is but a smoky memory, having been replaced with suspicious night riders thumping past my windows, their base set to 10, vibrating my crib and my nerves. Really? Is it necessary to massage the entire neighborhood with your music?

My husband Mike, sweet and hushed, snoozes on the left coast, while our two small dogs swim between us like escapees from Alcatraz looking for land, thrashing about and licking themselves, making the most disgusting mouth sounds—and beautiful Bella, our sleek Siamese, perching on my chest to steal a sip from my water glass. Her padded little paws feeling like steel fingers driving through me. Ouch! I should kick them all out of my bed. I don’t know how they got to be so spoiled.

And one mustn’t forget our firstborn, ending his graveyard shift by burglarizing our refrigerator, setting our two-Chihuahua alarm off, jarring me from my slumber, while hubby, conditioned to the sounds of sonny’s pre-dawn home invasions, snores peacefully beside me, the same way he did when our babies woke up in the middle of the night all cranky and foul-smelling, wailing into my clean nighty — wiping their mucousy little noses all over me. Curse these mommy ears, trained like sonar to detect the slightest of sounds! Will they ever let me rest? Will I ever be that person who can sleep through a normal night without having to resort to sound machines and sheep counting?

The morning arrives on time — benign and balanced, reminding me that I have an open invitation to clear away my bed-head blues and begin anew. I smile up at the ceiling, because I’m home and I get to go for a morning walk, listen to the birds…and drink coffee, leaving behind the exaggerated frustrations of the sleep deprived.

Sleep is messy. No! Being human is messy. Hell, it’s all messy! Good thing I’m resilient;)

Lighten Up!

Looking back on the last several weeks, I’m finding it nearly impossible to return to my routine. Perhaps five weeks was too long to be gone, although it seems to have flown by. I miss reading by the swimming pool, or sitting on Linda’s porch at the end of the day, sharing the evening meal while solving all the problems in the world.

I loved strolling through Savannah’s narrow streets with her artsy shops and spooky parks—dripping in Spanish moss and tainted history.

And then there was Hilton Head with her highfalutin beaches tousled with mermaid-hair seaweed, looking all mystical and wild—the exact opposite of what I had expected from this high-class lady.

Being back after a five-week working vacation is like being at a rock concert and mid-way through your favorite song, the place loses its power, creating a head buzzing, ear blocking silence!

Okay, maybe it’s not that bad. I think I’m just in a funk, plus Tropical Storm Debby is getting to me. She’s been lingering off of our coast for days, with her gray bloated self, blowing and boohooing all over everything—going no where because she can’t decide which path to choose, and giving us coastal dwellers a bad case of the nerves. (I know there’s a metaphor in there somewhere;)

All these clouds are putting me in a deeply reflective place. I’ve become way too serious this week and I’m trying to distract myself from it. This morning I did a four-page blog on the origin of thoughts. Four pages!! Yeah, be lucky I didn’t hit you with that one. You’d be running to the Dr. for some Prozac.

I know that I can’t help who I am. I have a tendency to go deep. Even as a kid I was reflective, opting to sit under a tree and listen to the birds, or play wordy records in my room, rather than run the neighborhood with the rest of the kids. I like being reflective and observant; it’s who I am.

I’ve never been much for the surface stuff. I don’t give a flying flip about how high your income is, or how good your children’s grades are. I’m more interested in hearing about you—the real you. And finding out what it is that you yearn for as you watch the sun quietly slip below the summer horizon, with a band of strumming crickets robbing you of your cares—leaving you alone and disarmed before all of creation. That’s the stuff I want to hear about.

So I run deep—and I’m a huge mush. And right now I’m missing the many faces that hold such special places in my heart.

My girls.

Soul sister Beth & family.

Mallory at the beach.

Laine & Mathius

Sweet Melissa

The Hammoudeh gang

I hate never having enough time to completely catch up with them. I’m certain that that’s why I’m feeling a little out of sorts. There’s just too much quiet around me, and then there’s Debby’s wallowing.

So, I guess I’m stuck with my deep-blue self, on this rainy day, although I’m not so far gone that I can’t seek some comedic relief…

Like sporting a pair of wax lips with my goofball friend!

Me & Lano

Or watching reruns of Just For Laughs.

Sometimes you just gotta lighten up!!

Who the Hell is Calling?

So, it’s 4:30am and I’m typing away my thoughts to you. I actually woke up at four and tossed and turned for a bit; my mind was restless, writing random lines and veering off the straight and narrow. I pulled it back on course, a huge ship, with much too much uncharted sea, and then my phone rang.

Little dog, who was sleeping within the folds of blanketed comfort next to me, barked out a lame warning, sort of a burpy half-bark, just in case I missed the ringing, making certain that I was awake; although she herself was unwilling to respond to the pre-dawn trilling of reveille.

With a huge family and close friends peppered around the planet the last sound I want to hear in the middle of the night is that of a ringing phone. A nocturnal ring sounds more like an air raid warning, screaming of an impending blitz, so I keep my phone a safe distance from my bedroom requiring the sound to work harder to reach my ears, dulling the alarming sensation of being rung awake. But in the blank slate of morning silence the ringing easily found my ears, jarring me into a state of, who-the-hell is-calling? And I-hope-the-kids-are-alright!

There was a certain tension between connecting my feet with the morning floor and reaching the phone, that was as tautly strung as a tightrope. Practicing the art of funambulism I traveled along this rope all the way to my cell phone, keeping my eyes straight ahead lest I look over the edge and see my children in various stages of murder and mayhem crying out for dear mother to save them. “Mummy!”

Caller ID showed that my son had placed three calls to me in the last five minutes. My mind was reasoning that these were merely pocket dials that he hadn’t intended to make, but my heart was racing. I phoned him back and he answered on the second ring; a flat tire with no jack; he found the jack; no need to come, sorry for waking you Ma.

I wanted to tell him that I was relieved that he was alive! and that he can call me anytime and I’d be there…no matter what or where, and that I missed him because he’s been working so much lately and that I hate that he won’t be here for Thanksgiving because of it. I wanted to reach through the phone and hug him so closely that I’d never forget how it felt, but instead I calmly said, “Okay son; I love you.” and then I disconnected.

Imagining John's Independence Day

I sat at John’s bedside; his face was graveyard gray, and sagging like the worn planks of a condemned house. In his youth John was a capable navigator for the Royal Dutch Navy. It was 1940, and John was home for a short furlough with his parents when the German army tore the front doors from the hinges of his sleepy village. It was a home invasion of massive proportions, disrupting checker games, and Sunday suppers, trampling well-tended lives underfoot, and stripping away the healthy flesh from a civilized society.

John was driven underground by Hitler’s minions, living in a hand-dug cave beneath his parents’ home. He hid like a fox from hunters, coming out only by the moon’s dubious light, transforming him into a hungry shadow searching for food like an animal. He begged crusts and crumbs from terrified neighbors, also sequestered to their homes.

The German soldiers rolled through his picturesque village like an army of masticating ants, killing and carrying off twenty times their weight in carcasses and loot, devouring everything in their paths; ants with thick helmets shielding their consciences from the ricocheting screams of the innocents, overpowering the powerless and meeting no resistance, proclaiming a ruthless victory that went as smoothly as a bayonet through a baby.

John waited, starving and powerless in his bleak grotto, until allied troops liberated the Netherlands nearly five years later.

John turned ninety five on his last birthday and had managed to maintain a sharp mind, generous humor, and a sincere love for his fellow man. I marveled at his resilience, and I sensed that when I visited him that I was in the company of a great man. I also knew that this visit in particular would probably be our last. John was in the final stages of his battle with cancer.

I held John’s emaciated hand and envisioned him as a twenty four year old man hiding from the Nazis. I tried to imagine the mental and physical strength he had to conjure in order to get through such a horrific ordeal, and the unspeakable relief he must have felt at his deliverance. He knew the meaning of freedom in a way that most people in our country couldn’t fathom…including me.

Last Monday, our dear John passed away peacefully with his lovely wife by his side. It was the ultimate liberation, freeing him from a sick body that had become more of a prison than a home. Although I’m going to miss John, I know that things are as they should be.

Why am I telling you this story? Because it’s almost Independence Day and John is gone, but I am still filled up with him. And, I wanted to say something important about the day….and how John’s life was important too. I needed to put these thoughts on paper so the meaning of John’s suffering would never be forgotten.

I’m sad…but mostly grateful. Grateful that I knew John and that I live in a country where there is peace and plenty. I want to thank John and the other brave souls who have suffered and perished for freedom’s sake, for giving me the carefree pleasure of lighting a sparkler, eating a hot dog, and waving the American flag this holiday weekend.

One need only look back a short distance to imagine what life would be like without freedom…

A Perfect Fit

I was shaving my legs in the bathroom sink when my then 22-yr. old daughter Stephanie, who still hadn’t moved out, barged in and informed me that her boyfriend was buying her a puppy for their upcoming anniversary. I dabbed my bloody leg with a tissue and told her no. Well, okay, I screamed “NO!” with the fierceness of a raging warrior and then rattled off a frantic shopping list of reasons why she couldn’t have a dog. “You’re never home, I’ll end up taking care of it, like all the other pets in this house, and you can’t afford it!”

My daughter stood there silently eyeing me, unmoved by my speech. Her narrow mouth turned upward forming an eerie coyote grin, and then without a word she confidently walked off. Stephanie has her ways of grinding me down to a fine powder when she wants something; therefore it wasn’t surprising to me that after a few days of constant pounding, she had obliterated my resolve like a Cheeto under a choo-choo and I had agreed to the pup.

I hadn’t told my husband about the pending pooch. I guess I was still hoping for the possibility that my daughter would opt for a trip to Vegas or a piece of anniversary jewelry. Stephanie decided on a female Teacup Chihuahua. I wasn’t thrilled with her choice seeing that the one time I had ever been bitten by a dog; it was by a scrawny Chihuahua with bulging eyes and teeth like a piranha. Stephanie showed me a picture of the puppy, which was posted online by the breeder. This little baby was so adorable that I immediately felt my hard heart softening, creating a doggy door right in the middle of it.

I tried to stifle my enthusiasm about the puppy. I didn’t want my daughter to think that I was a total sucker and could be won over so easily. “She looks okay” I said, as I nonchalantly walked away from the monitor. But once my daughter was out the door, I was back on the computer staring at the dog’s picture and counting the days left until she arrived. At this point I decided to let my husband in on the secret and showed him the picture of the ten-ounce puppy. I was hoping the sweet image would soften him, and maybe he would want her as badly as I did, but instead he simply grunted and said, “I’ve eaten steaks bigger than that dog.”

Stephanie decided to name the puppy Dutchess. That wasn’t my first choice but I figured best to let her alone on this one, after all it was “her” dog….for now. In the mornings, after everyone had left for work, I would pour my coffee and sit at the computer browsing the online pet shops for doggy outfits. Within a few weeks I had a hefty stash of sweaters, treats, and accessories, hidden away in the corner of my closet. I felt like a woman possessed. Here I was spending money on dog clothes while my toes were peeking out through the holes in my socks.

I tried rationalizing away my preoccupation with the puppy. “I’m out of work, which is leaving me with way too much time on my hands” I told myself, “plus I miss having little kids around.” Mine were in their 20’s, and although they still lived with us, I saw them more as annoying roommates rather than the adorable offspring I once worshipped. I decided that I had fallen victim to “full- nest syndrome” a condition that affects women whose grown children have long overstayed their welcome and seek to overthrow the household. Something I’d have to remember to email Dr. Phil about it.

I kept my affair with Dutchess hidden until one day I absentmindedly left the closet door open and my daughter stumbled upon my stockpile of doggy clothes. ”I knew it!” she exclaimed! “I knew you wanted a dog!” She teased and poked at me for a while until she finally grew bored with it and left. But on her way out she paused long enough to look over her shoulder at me, and spit, “Don’t forget…the puppy is MINE!” I cut my eyes at her, mumbled a few expletives, and padded back to the closet to re-fold the dog clothes.

Finally, late one night in mid October, Stephanie brought Dutchess home. I couldn’t wait to catch a glimpse of the baby. I stood staring in amazement as Dutchess wiggled around on the kitchen floor wagging her skinny tail and licking Stephanie’s face. Her eyes looked like big chocolate milk duds, and her head was way too large for the rest of her miniature body. I began to laugh at the spectacle; a relaxed laughter that released any apprehension I had about us getting a dog. Sliding down onto the floor, I let Dutchess smell my hand; but instead she began to wash my face with tiny kisses. Her tongue was like a small piece of pink felt that tickled my cheek bringing on another episode of laughter. As I lay on the floor, getting my face washed, I realized that I had already fallen in love with little Dutchess.

It didn’t take long for my daughter to see how much work it was to take care of a puppy; particularly one as tiny as Dutchess. Stephanie would appear in my bedroom late at night like an apparition. Exhausted, she would tuck the dog in bed with me and mumble something like... “help mommy …stupid puppy peed….can’t sleep”. Ah, how the young lack strength! I silently gloated as Stephanie’s desire to parent Dutchess faded like an over washed pair of jeans…. Just as I said it would.

Now, over five years later, we have all found our places in Dutchess's life. My daughter has since moved out, and because of her busy schedule has agreed to leave Dutchess with us. I still let her call herself Dutchess’s owner, but I have, through consistent parenting, been promoted to mommy; although Stephanie still sneers when I say it.

My macho son, Ben, is still amazed at the size of our 4lb canine and speaks to her in a squeaky little voice when he thinks that nobody else is listening. And although my husband Mike initially scoffed at the idea of us getting a Teacup Chihuahua, now I can’t seem to keep the two apart. Each morning they share a walk through our neighborhood, like a giant and a flea, oblivious to the spectacle that they create. And Dutchess.. well, her favorite place is snuggled contently beneath my fuzzy bathrobe, next to my heart, stirring only to change positions or investigate any kitchen noises. I sometimes have to catch my breath when I think that we almost didn’t get a dog, and am grateful that even though we didn’t know what it was that we needed, life generously brought Dutchess to us anyway.