papa, you may be right...

I was completely duped.

We keep our 8-month old pup in a kennel next to the bed at night so that we (I) can hear her when she gets squirrelly, which generally means we (I) need to get our (my) sleepy butts out of bed, like, NOW if we don't want to be cleaning up biohazardous waste at 2:30 in the morning.  

Biohazardous waste is never pleasant, but at 2:30 in the morning, it sucks.  X 10.

She's been doing great.  She's even taken to whining to signal us that she's ready for her moonlight pooper. We're thrilled about this progress.  (I really am.)

So last night, she got up as expected at about 2:20, and we trudged outside and took care of business.  Then we stumbled back upstairs.  Wednesday (the pup in question) was tucked back into her cozy little kennel, and I was out like a light.  Perfect.

Only she got all squirrelly again at 5:50.

Which I chose to ignore.  I mean, c'mon.  It was 5:50.  I didn't want to trudge in the moonlight again.  It wasn't fair.  We already trudged.  And pooped.  She had to chill out, that was all there was to it.  I had serious sleeping to do before my alarm went off at 6:15.  Serious sleeping.

Only then she whined.

Crap.  

I can't ignore the whine.  The whine is the "I'm not kidding, I really gotta go" signal.  Can't mess with success.  It might have been more early morning than middle of the night, but biohazardous waste still sucks at that time of day.  Period.

So I haul my sleepy butt out of bed, and open her kennel door with leash in hand, grumpily ready for more trudging and pooping and things of that nature.

That little shiznit darts out of her kennel, and makes a beeline for my bed.  She jumps up and frantically burrows under the covers to the very foot of the bed and then lies very still.  Like if maybe she didn't move, I wouldn't realize what had just happened.  That no little beastie had just escaped and was now cozily concealed under a mound of down comforter.  And I'd crawl back in bed and get 20 more precious minutes of sleep because she was so freakin' cute for her ingenuity and spunk.

And it totally worked.  Because that's exactly what happened.

So, you're right, Papa.  She's spoiled.  There.  I said it.  She outsmarted me at 5:50 this morning, and I totally let her get away with it.  

But with a face like this, could you really blame me? 

(For the sake of full disclosure, this photo was NOT taken this morning, but on a previous morning when it was essentially wake-up time but we decided that it would be more fun to cuddle than it would to go downstairs and pour cereal for noisy Nelson children.  No duping took place here.  She wasn't spoiled yet.  Obviously.)

a public apology to my son

So, the oldest, Kyle, had a soccer game yesterday.  His first soccer game.  He's been working so hard at practices and has come a long way, both in his skills and his confidence level.  And he was nervous for said soccer game.  Sweet boy.

I, the mama, had an upset stomach yesterday.  I woke up feeling bad, with an inkling it was going to be worse.  But I rested and rallied and went to the game.  Feeling bad, definitely, but I was ok enough that I was able to enjoy watching and revel in Kyle's debut performance on the soccer field.  I really did.  Swear.

Immediately after the game, the youngest, Emma, and I left to go to the store so that we could pick up a birthday present for a girlfriend of hers.  The daddy, Steve, and I had taken separate cars, so Emma and I scooted out of there so we could finish up our errand and get home.  Because as I mentioned before, I was feeling bad.  I really was.  Swear.

While at Target, I went from feeling bad, to feeling really bad, to feeling baaa-aaa-aaad.  When we got home, the oldest greeted me at the door, and evidently I asked him if he'd taken a shower yet.  And then I promptly went to bed.  Because I felt baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad.  I spent the rest of the day in a horizontal position, either on the couch, in the stairwell, or in my bed.  It was a yucky day.  A truly no-good unhappy day.  A baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad day.  It really, REALLY was.  Swear.

Later that night, before the boys went to bed, they came in to check on me and found that I had risen out of my haze a bit.  Kyle, the oldest, sat on one side of me in bed, smiled a shy little smile and said, "Mom, you know, you never said anything about my game today.  It's like it didn't even happen.  You came home, told me to shower, and then took a nap."

Silence.  Then there was an audible crack as my mommy heart broke, and I went from feeling baaaaaaaaaaad to woooooooooooooooorse.

"Oh, Kyle, honey!!!  I'm so sorry!!!  You did a great job, and I'm so proud of you!  I loved watching you play!  I'm so sorry...I've just been so sick...oh my gosh...honey, I'm so sorry!  I'm a terrible mother!"

To which the middlest, Sean, (who's seated at my other side) reaches over, pats my arm and says...

(this deserves it's own paragraph)

"Now, Mom...you're not a terrible mother.  You're not the best, but you're not terrible."

Silence.

And then we cackled ourselves silly.  I held my sore tummy and laughed and laughed and laughed.  I almost peed.

It was priceless.  :)

So...to my oldest,  I hereby publicly apologize.  Please know that I am so very proud of your efforts and under normal circumstances, would never dream of not heaping praises upon you for said efforts.  I love you.  GOOD JOB!

To my middlest, I hereby give you a high-five for taking advantage of the perfect opportunity to razz your mother.  I'm very proud of your sarcasm, and you've obviously been paying attention.  I love you.  GOOD JOB!

(And word to the wise, middlest...when I'm feeling much better, I'll be comin' for ya.  I really will.  Swear.)