The Luck of Lily

Some good things just drop in your lap. One day during my prep time at school, I was minding my own business, probably standing in the middle of my classroom trying to remember what I was about to do, and a co-worker came in. "Would your dad be interested in a Springer Spaniel? I know he bird hunts and such."

My parents had two dogs at the time, and absolutely no interest in a Springer Spaniel. "Nope," I said, not really giving the idea much thought at all. "My parents inherited my grandpa's dog last summer, so they're pretty much full on the dog front. And, even though we lost a dog last summer, I don't think I could convince my husband to take in a Springer."

I got a little choked up, as the dog we had lost that summer had been Belle, my English Setter, my first baby, who'd been through it all with me. She'd slept on my bed in the crook of my legs with her head resting over my back. She'd barked at strange noises in the night when I was single and scared them away. She'd stood in the middle of my driveway after Emma was born and wouldn't let a single person drive in, for fear they'd touch "her baby". She'd lived in seven different homes with me, made me laugh, made me so mad I wanted to strangle her and, when she got suddenly ill and passed away at the vet before we had to make the decision to put her down, made me cry. She was a great dog, and I missed her. But, I knew a "toddler" Springer Spaniel was not going to replace that Belle-sized hole in my heart.

"Yeah," my co-worker said, "I'm in a similar situation. This was my dad's dog, I really didn't want to take it, but it would've broken his heart... I've got this other dog, too, and it's just a lot for me..." She started to walk out into the hallway and walk away, but Fate brought her back in. "What about a Golden Retriever?"

Now, a Golden Retriever was a completely different story. My college roommate's family had a Golden, Casey, who I would pet until he fell asleep every time we went to her house. I adored that dog. Belle had a best friend, Annie, who was a Golden from Obedience and Agility Class. When we watched dog shows and obedience trials, I always favored the Goldens. Just a great breed of dog.

"Welllll," I said, picturing Eric and his inaffection for 'big dogs'. "I may be able to talk my husband into a Golden. Your other dog is a Golden?"

The co-worker explained how a mutual friend had rescued the other dog, then moved to another town with her other four dogs and needed someone to keep this dog.

"I really wanted just a little dog that would sleep on my bed and lie in my lap while I watch TV," she said, "Not two energetic dogs."

My heart skipped a beat as I thought of throwing a ball to Casey, giving him Milkbone biscuits, petting him until I was covered in fur. "I'll talk to Eric tonight, okay? I would be completely on board--I love Goldens--but it would have to be okay with him, too."

Later that day, about twenty minutes after school let out, a smallish, orange whir ran through my room. It circled the tables, sniffed my feet, and ran for the door. All I could make out was a tail spinning at the speed of a hummingbird's wing. My co-worker came tearing in, leash in hand, and said, "She's super sweet! Seriously!"

I got down and pet her fur; she was a wagging shag-carpet of love. I really wanted to just put her in my car and go home. I looked up at my co-worker. "Seriously, you don't have to talk me into this.  I was in love before you even brought her in here. But, I cannot just bring a dog home. I have to talk to Eric." So, my dream dog and her wrangler went out to their car and went home.

That night, with Emma's six-year-old ears waaaaaay out of range,  I asked Eric what he would think of a getting a Golden Retriever. "That was random--unless it wasn't," he said, a suspicious eyebrow up. I explained my co-worker's story.

"Yeah, but aren't they, like, really big dogs?" he asked.

"They come in different sizes. She's actually small for a Golden. Smaller than Belle was; well, shorter anyway."

"I dunno..." Eric went upstairs while I stayed downstairs, and I really thought the issue was dead. About two minutes later, Eric came down with a water for him, a water for me, and a crazy answer.

"Okay, who am I to say you shouldn't have a big dog in your life? How 'bout this--we try her out for a night or two and see what we think."

"Like, this weekend?"

"No, right now. Go get her and we'll see what happens. She'd have to be fine while we were at work, too."

So, I hopped in my car, drove out to the co-worker's house, and wrestled the rambunctious Lily into the car. Picture a gerbil the size of a wolf. She sniffed my neck, the seats, and the "way back"; she licked each window, rubbed her nose across the dashboard, then sat like a lady in the passenger seat. She looked at me with a smile as if to say, "So, where're we going now?"

The great news for Lily was that we had an invisible fence from Belle, so she could run around in the yard without a leash, and we didn't have to worry she'd run away. She knew her name, but certainly didn't come to it. Lily had lived with one family as a puppy, another woman for two months, my co-worker for three months, and now had come to us. I really believe that, at that point in her life, Lily didn't know what home meant. Even though she had found it.

When we got back to the house, Lily ran around the family room downstairs, smelling the smells and seeing the sights. Eventually, she settled down on the floor next to Eric's recliner, where he proceeded to pet her for over an hour. As his arm stroked, Eric turned to me and said, "Okay, I give. Barring any unforeseen craziness tomorrow, this dog can stay. She is super sweet." Maybe I was the one who asked for Lily and brought her to the house, but she was Eric's dog from day one.

That night, she slept by Eric's side of the bed, her head hiding under the bed, his own personal guardian. When we awoke in the morning, Lily ran circles around us, the tail a now-hazardous propeller which could strike at any moment. We strapped the underground fence collar around her neck and let her loose on the yard. Eric stood on the porch as she zipped and flew around the yard, greeting every blade of grass, tree trunk, flower stem, "Hey, hi! I'm Lily!" When Eric called her to come in, though, she gave him a happy glance, and kept on sniffing. It was clear she wasn't coming until she was good and ready.

When we came home from work that day, I fully expected a torn-down house. Belle had been...interesting. She ate metal. Like, one time, she consumed and later threw up 87 cents. She chewed glasses, metal teacher pins, hinges. She also peed anywhere she damn well pleased. If you didn't catch her (this was well past "potty training," folks) right when she wanted to go out, she'd just go. I kept her in a kennel ("She won't pee where she sleeps and eats") and she peed right on her bed. Thus, Eric's words "unforeseen craziness" kept ringing in my head throughout the day. I kept imagining what wreckage that energetic little whirlwind was bestowing upon our house. As I stepped into the house from the garage I found... nothing. There she was, tail just a-going, happy to see me. I searched the house and then bent down to hug Lily around the neck. "Nice work, lady," I said into her smiling eyes, "You've made it!"

So, Lily was ours. Over the next few days, we realized the collar was crucial, because she ran like crazy around the yard. She did not come when you called, but rather had to be corralled back into the house. "Okay," I thought to myself, "we'll have to work on that." I had been through lots of obedience classes with my dad's dogs and with Belle. I figured she was just young and untrained. We'd figure it out together.

In the house, you couldn't ask for a better dog. She was happy to see you when you came in at the end of the day. Shoot, she was happy to see you when you came in from another room. "Hi," her eyes always said, "Let's play!" She would tirelessly chase a tossed ball or Carolina's soft BlueDog across the room and bring it back. She was never quite sure she wanted to give it up, but she'd acquiesce because she really did want to chase it, and then let go. She cuddled with me, Emma, Eric, and tried to cuddle Carolina and the cat. She turned her adolescent head sideways when you talked to her, smelled your face, sighed contentedly. She was a great dog.

I took her into the yard to go potty and saw a stick under a tree. Thinking of our fetch games in the house, I picked it up and raised it above my head, "Lil," I yelled, "go get it!" Lily lay down immediately on her belly and covered her face with her paws. She didn't move.

You sons of bitches, I thought. We didn't know much about Lily's past, just that her original owners had tied her with a short rope to a tree outside their home, and had fed her too much. We didn't know any more reason than that about why my co-worker's friend had rescued her. Based on the stick, I was pretty sure we didn't want to know.

"It's okay, baby," I said. I set the stick down, sat down next to Lily, and put her head in my lap. We cuddled, Lily and I, out in the yard, and pondered life's dark spaces. "Lily, we will never hurt you," I told her chocolate eyes, and I think she believed me.

However, she was still a runner. Four days after Lily came to live with us, we had a babysitter. When we came home after the rare date night, the poor girl was just distraught. "I didn't put the collar on!" she said through tears. Lily had darted out the front door, and taken off down the road. She and Emma had called and called, but Lily hadn't come back. After about an hour, they'd started knocking on neighbors' doors, and found Lily next door. They attached a collar and leash, and got her home. That was literally the last time we had a sitter for Emma. And we realized just how much Lily needed that invisible fence collar.

Unfortunately for me, she couldn't wear the collar in the car. About a week after Lily moved in, I was loading Emma into the car to take her to Girl Scouts. I was going to make a stop at the McDonald's gas station in town, get some gas and get dinner for Emma, and then come home. Lily stood at the door as we put on our jackets, tail swinging, eyes sparkling. "Do you want to go, Sweetie?" I asked. Lily nudged my keys with her nose. "Okay, c'mon!" With the garage door closed, I opened the minivan door and Lily hopped in.

Her nose sniffed happily and dribbled nose-drool down the side of the window. "Watch the tail," I laughed to Emma as I watched in the rear view mirror. Emma giggled and leaned toward her side of the car, nearly avoiding decapitation.

"Geez, Mom, she sure is happy," Em said and I agreed. Lily was the sweetest dog. Really gentle and cuddly, and glad to meet everybody.

I pulled the van up, got gas, and then parked on the side. "Okay, Em," I said, "let's get you some dinner before Scouts. Watch out for Lily." Before the words even left my mouth, Lily was out.

Now, I need to mention, this gas station is on what we in the small town of Indian River (with our two stoplights) refer to as "M-68". Like, a "highway" of sorts. Definitely one of the busiest roads in our town. In addition, the freeway, I-75, is right there. Like, less than a block east. So, I did the only thing I could do. I completely freaked out.

"Liiiiiii-llllllllly!" I screeched. Lily ran past me, through the other parked vehicles, and down the front of the building. Of course this was one of those rare days that I actually wore a dress and girl shoes to work. I hobbled after her, trying to hike up my ankle length skirt and swing for the dog at the same time. When she reached the end of the building, Lily turned--toward the road--and then ran back the other way, zipping through the cars getting gas. "Grab that dog!" I yelled at the people pumping gas, who just stood there agape as if they'd never seen a dog taking off from its owner at a super busy gas station in the middle of town. "Lil! C'mon, Lily!" I yelled desperately. Lily gave me the shiny grin, then zoomed behind the building.

There's a fence, and behind that is the Sturgeon River. Lily streaked up and down the river bank, smelling, greeting, laughing, loving life. I stumbled, grabbed trees and mud, and tried to snatch her. At one point, she whizzed past me, "Hi, Mom! Isn't this the best?" and ran along the river to the edge of the fence.

Emma stood on the pavement, watching and calling, but she was six. She really couldn't help much. As I struggled in the mud, Lily came back up on the pavement and ran down the empty drive-thru lane. I pushed past the fence and tore after her, skirt flapping in the wind. I seriously hoped they didn't have a camera on the drive-thru.

Finally, finally, by the grace of God, Lily got tired. And when she did, she ran over to me and let me grab her collar. Emma was crying by then--she felt like it was all her fault--and didn't want to go to Scouts anymore. I was sobbing by then--I could just picture this lovely creature we'd brought into our home being killed by a car in front of my six-year-old--and exhausted. We went home, where Lily was happy to curl up next to Eric's chair.

Two weeks in, we had to take Lily to the vet to get spayed. This time I attached the leash before I left the garage. I pulled Lily into the office, the same vet office that had told my co-worker's friend about Lily and inspired her to go talk the original owner into giving her up. Lily's tail thumped against the reception desk as I signed her in, and she willingly went into the back room with the attendant. "I'll be back tomorrow, Sweetie Girl," I called to Lily, but she didn't seem to hear.

The next day, when I came to pick Lily up, the receptionist commented on what a gentle dog Lily was. "A real sweetheart," she said. "We have really enjoyed her."

"Oh, I know," I said, "we're super lucky to have her." At the sound of my voice, Lily started going bonkers in the cage in the adjacent room. She began whining and turning around in the cage, tail beating the sides.

"Well, she sure knows her mom," the receptionist smiled, "we haven't heard one peep out of her since she got here."

I pictured the great chase in the McDonald's and laughed. "Well, I hope she will. We haven't had her very long. She still doesn't come when called or anything yet."

At that moment, the attendant brought Lily in where she could see me. Lily bolted, pulled her leash out of the attendant's hands, and slammed her head into my legs, almost knocking me off my feet. She whined, and rubbed her face on my legs, and wagged her happy tail, and attacked me with love.

"She may not come to her name, but she knows her family," the receptionist laughed, as my butt hit the floor.

Lily's eyes looked deep into mine. I hugged her around the neck. We were lucky to have her. She was lucky to have us. Lily had finally found home.

The French Translation of "Easy Set" is "Le Pain En L'Ass"

Remember Michael Phelps? He's actually back in the news, now that the summer olympics are here again. Now, I don't think he is the world's greatest role model or anything, but I do specifically remember the story his mother told. Michael had such "bad" ADHD, that his mother got him into swimming. He swam every day before school, and it really helped with his hyperactivity. When I heard that story, Ben was 3 1/2 and we were really starting to think about dealing with his... energy level. That summer we changed his diet, and I tucked that little swimming fact into my brain.

So, we've now done about 80 different things for Ben, including various medications. This winter, we decided that one way to help Ben was to always have activities for him--not sitting around on a Saturday with "nothin' to do". I remembered the Phelps fact and said we should sign up Ben for swim lessons in Gaylord, about half an hour from our home. To our delight, Ben took like a fish to swim lessons (as did Becca), and Eric was able to get all our grocery shopping for the week done while I watched the kids swim. It didn't necessarily slow Ben down during Saturdays, but at least it gave him something to do.

This summer, then, we continued with swim lessons. Ben began swimming a little under water, doing forward float (face in the water) and a float on his back. Recently, he has even begun to doggy paddle. Knowing that he's been making this great progress in swim class, and that he will have "nothing to do all day" every day of the summer, I made a proposal to Eric: "Hey, let's get a pool!"

You must understand: we live in an association. In The Association, there are certain rules. Above ground pools are specifically against the rules. We do have a few items on our property which may or may not follow said rules. Thus, when I first brought 'the pool' up to Eric, it was a pretty quick conversation.
      "Hon, I think we should get a pool."
      "Nope, we can't. Rules."

But I wouldn't let it go. I'd seen Facebook posts of my friend's pool the summer before, and I was just sure this was the thing for us. So, I pulled up Amazon reviews and photos of the pool, and bugged Eric like crazy.

It was called an "Easy Set" pool, and it was soft sided. It was a "blow up" pool, essentially. How could The Association ban a blow up pool? Eric brought it up at a meeting of The Association, and they actually agreed! In fact, all those sweet, retired people thought our kids DESERVED a pool. Suddenly, Eric was reading the reviews, and we were actually discussing this pool.

The Sign came at work one day, when I received an email about getting paid for being a mentor teacher this year. "I just paid for the pool!" I texted Eric with glee. I told my teaching partner that she had just paid for Ben Hall to have a pool all summer. We got on Amazon that night and, it was on the way... Our glorious pool!

We were so naive. Okay, me. I was so naive. See, when I talked to Eric about it, I had to convince him. I had to promise him that if there was a teeny pinhole, or a rip in the side, or it exploded, I would deal with it. Because, well, I don't have a great track record. Read my last post, you'll totally get it. But, I promised. I was so completely, positively, over-the-moon in love with this pool idea (picture Ben and Becca splashing and playing all day, me reading a book in the beautiful sunshine, Emma floating on a ring in the middle, Eric having peace and quiet in his office...) that I didn't even listen when Eric made me promise. I blindly agreed that all hassle would be solved by me, WonderMom.

Hoooo, doggie. I had no clue. First, we needed a level area. Eric and I work very hard so we can pay people who know what they're doing to work on our home, so neither of us know much of anything about home construction, repair, etc. I never really thought a lot about how level the area would have to be. We have a cement pad outside our garage, which I had assumed was level. Like, level level. So, I unpacked the giant pool (fifteen feet across!), laid out the tarp, covered it with the pool, smoothed the bottom, and started filling that sucker up. Just one teeny problem... All the water kept going to the one side. All the water. I stopped filling for a bit, when the water was several inches deep on one side and nonexistent on the other side. (I need to insert here that this is the moment our 5-year-old decided to have a MAJOR MELTDOWN, because we wouldn't let her swim in the pool. Which had no water. We're the meany-est parents EVER!) I took out our level (I'm not sure why we have one, but we do!) and tried it on the cement. By lifting it less than half an inch, it was level. So, seriously, how bad could that be? Plenty level. I filled up the pool.

Unfortunately, it was not plenty level. Not even close. Turns out, less than half an inch in the span of our level's length ends up being many inches across fifteen feet. By the time one side of the pool was full, the other side had not even filled up to the spots where the pump was supposed to connect. Plus, the full side was bulging in a bad way. Shit. So, I had to drain the pool. Which meant I had to open the drain plug. Which was housed inside the pool. Which meant I had to get into the pool. Remember the beautiful picture earlier in the blog? Add ice and the slowest drain on the planet (and me feeling like an idiot because I had begged to buy this stupid thing) and you'd see the actual day I spent. Ben, Becca, and I bounced around in the pool, which was awfully cold, and tried to make the best of it. I prayed that the bulging side would not rip out while we were in there. The pool dripped out at a rate of about 1/4 cup an hour, until I figured out that putting two rake handles on either side of the drain (it was lying on the cement) and propped the drain open (which, yes, meant submerging my head a few more times in the fresh-from-the-hose water). By the next afternoon, I had most of the water out, and I could start again.

This is really the point where I should have just wiped the thing out and put it back in the box. But, man, those things are HUGE, and I had no idea how to ship it back. True story. I googled wedges and other junk that I could use to fix the angle. There's a lot of cool stuff out there--leveling sand for one--that would just plain not work. At some point, I had a moment of clarity: foam squares. Yes, foam squares! My students sit on foam squares in my classroom on the carpet. I have 24, plus more from previous years. I made layer upon layer of slowly descending foam squares, which would prop up the lower half of the pool. I pulled the pool floor over the makeshift wedge, and started again.

And, we were filling. The water was building on the one side, but not nearly as much as the last time. This was going to work! I gleefully sat outside and watched water pour into the pool, visions of fun times dancing in my head.

Until it didn't work. Once again, the one side of the pool filled to the brim, and the other side could not even reach the outlets for the pump. I believe Eric measured it at one point and there was an eight-and-a-half inch discrepancy. One side was bulging hideously and the other side was flopped over, floating on the top of the water. It. Just. Sucked.

I am not proud of my next actions. I knew I had to get back into the damn pool to pull the plug again. And, seriously, hose-fresh water is really, really cold. But, after I got the plug pulled out, I couldn't unscrew the drain cap on the outside of the pool (it was buried under the bulging side). I got Eric to help me--I held up the edge of the pool with the rake handles and Eric ripped the flesh off his hands unscrewing the cap. So, I should have been nice to him, right? Well, I wasn't. Not even close. In fact, I told him to go away and snarled about how I understand it must be hard living with someone who has so many idiotic ideas when you're "perfect". Or something to that effect. Something clearly unwarranted and nasty, because I was pissed at myself for ordering a pool that wouldn't even fill up. This time the dumb thing wouldn't drain, either, because--as I said--the drain was buried under the pool. I had to keep readjusting the handles, trying to get the water out. I ended up using an old fish tank vacuum we had, which actually poured the water out much more quickly (after I screamed and swore and spit and kicked the pool a few hundred times). By morning, I was at least able to pull the
squares out and kind of fold the thing up. I was done. No more pool. Screw it.

But, I'm not sure how well you know me. Maybe you just randomly read blogs. You may not know that I am, um, persistent. Stubborn. When I get something in my head, I don't let it go. Pretty sure I got it from my Grandma Hendricks, one of the most generous, wonderful, bull-headed people on the earth. This being the case, I could not just give up on the pool. In the morning, I looked at that slimy, piece of crap and thought, "There must be a way."

Around this time, Eric went to pick up our nephew and nieces halfway between North Carolina and Michigan. This left me alone with my crazy thoughts. I went all around the yard, using that idiotic level, trying to find one stinking spot that would hold the pool. I found ONE--a spot in our lawn right in front of the house--that seemed like maybe it was level. ONE. In three plus acres of land, ONE spot. I got a tarp from the garage and laid it out in a fifteen-by-fifteen square. I rolled up the edges to hold water in and sprayed the hose in one corner, in another corner, in the middle, on the sides, every single spot. The water...pooled. Get it? It literally POOLED. Like, it didn't even all flow to one side! I wanted to jump in the air--remember those old Toyota commercials?--but I really couldn't even summon the optimism for a true smile. I hesitantly planned to move the pool.

Since Eric was gone, I got Ben to move the pool with me. Bug-filled, leafy, water sloshed back and forth, spilling out and splashing us as we lugged the rolled up tarp and pool combo from the garage to the front of the house. For a seven-year-old, he was quite helpful. "Mom, can we fill it up today? Hey, Mom, I think I could hold my breath for five 'bobs' if we filled it up today. Mom, Mom? Mom, I know what we can do. We can get boards, Mom, and that would do it. Do you think so, Mom? I think so. I think it would work. Hey, Mom, want to play catch after? I found your mitt, so we can play catch just like me and Dad play..." Suffice it to say, I waited for Eric to come home before I tried to fill it again.

Fill it, we did. We put about two inches of water in, and then we measured each side. One side was about 1/16 of an inch off. We hemmed and hawed and put more water in. We measured again on each side. About the same. We kept filling a little, measuring, filling, measuring, and--I'll be damed!--it worked. When it was all said and done, I think we were about an inch off one side to another. NO bulging side, and we could actually attach the hoses. It was amazing! I read the directions for the filter and pump, hooked that puppy up, and we were in BUSINESS!

Ben, Becca and I loved the pool. Emma came home from work, and loved the pool. I took videos of Becca and Emma giggling together... I apologized to the pool on Facebook for all the horrid words I said about it. We got one of those floaty chlorine thingies and enjoyed the pool for a few days.

Then, there was a pinhole. Literally, a PIN hole. Right in the side of the pool. Eric drove in to town and bought some vinyl repair patches which I squeegeed onto the side of the pool. So far, so good.

"The pool's deflated," was all it took for me to freak right out. The translation was, "The ring around the top of the pool deflated."

"Crap," I thought, "I swear, this pool is going to be the death of me." I re-inflated the ring after discovering that the chlorine floaty thing that I had secured to the air cap of the ring pulled the plug. Aaaand, back in business.

The next day, deflated AGAIN. The new way I had secured it pulled the plug AGAIN. This time I attached it to the ladder.

We began to swim and play and enjoy this giant pain in my behind. Our dark days, it seemed, were behind us.

But this week, there seemed to be some kind of filter issue. Like, I don't think it was pumping water. There was a tiny leak on one of the outlet tubes. Tiny. A drip, really. So, first I wiggled that hose. Which, sort of lead to wiggling all the hoses. Which, sort of lead to realizing all the little black rubber band things that went around the hose ends to keep water from passing through were all slightly askew. So, some wiggling of those guys. Then, the water got a little much. I may have had to get a flat head screw driver to try to shove the black rubber bands back into place, while water sprayed all over the freaking place. Since I was already drenched from removing each hose and fixing it, and the filter was still not working, I got the booklet and read that maybe I needed to clean the filter.

Now, I swear, I read all the directions about removing and cleaning the filter. But, when I unplugged the filter and opened the cap of the pump, water literally began flowing out of the pump, like the fountain at the damn Detroit Zoo. I was flooding the lawn. I think the pool may have been floating on the water coming out of its own pump. Plug caps! I was supposed to use plug caps! I sploshed from the front lawn to the garage and grabbed the two plug caps. I capped the outlet valves. Old Faithful was still a'going! Then, I felt the inlet valve and--dammit!--it was somehow becoming an outlet! Again, I swam to the garage and grabbed a third plug cap. I capped that inlet valve and--DAMMIT!--the stupid fountain would NOT stop! At this moment in time, poor Eric decided to ask if I needed help. Let me paint the picture for you. I was wearing my Jimmy Fallon T-shirt, Detroit Tiger pajama pants, Elmo knee-high socks, and some seriously soaked Crock strap sandals. I'd had on my Philly sweatshirt, but the sleeves had gotten soaked when I shoved my arm in to remove the outtake valve covers and apply the caps. I was a wreck.

"Um, do you need any help?" He had been mowing.

"No! Go away! This is my own stupid decision!" I think I may have actually have heard my Grams say that once or twice.

So, Eric went away, as requested, and I was left to figure it out: Where was the damn water COMING from?

If you've stuck with me this far, you may actually be able to predict the outcome. I couldn't have imagined or written a better "next". One of the little plug caps had come off, and was now on the bottom of the pool. I peered over the edge of the pool, saw that litttle shit just sitting there, and I knew what I had to do.

I dropped my pajama pants and jumped in the pool. I had to dive under to get the plug cap. While I was there, I decided I might as well rescue the inlet cover, which I had dropped earlier. Then, soaking wet (still in my Elmo socks, I might add), I got out of the pool and reattached the plug cap. Pantless.

The water stopped. Silence. It was a beautiful sound. I wiped the pool water from my face and glanced up to see Eric just staring. Normally, and all during this entire pool saga, I get really screamy and angry when this stuff goes wrong (see snarky comments above when I couldn't empty the pool). This time, there was literally nothing to do but laugh.

"Please tell me this will at least be funny soon," Eric called across the lawn.

"No," I yelled, "It's funny NOW!"

Eventually Ben and Becca came in the front (I had chased them away), I got all the parts somehow

put back together, and the filter is working great. I did finally put my pants back on, though they stuck to me like Saran Wrap, because I was so wet. The Littles were both very concerned about my crying, as it's hard to explain to young children what tears of laughter really mean.


So, I'm trying to stay positive. I'm positive there will be more to this pool. More stories. More adventures. And, eventually, the side will just rip open and all the water will flow out. I get that. But, for now, I'll watch Ben do his 'bobs' and Becca almost swim as she's grasping for her noodle. Maybe I'll even get to read a book. I won't hold my breath.