Anxiety Sucks

In case you’re unaware… Anxiety sucks. I mean it. Like, really, really sucks.

I’ve had anxiety all my life. When I was a kid, I freaked out when my dad took me out in a boat (which I begged him to rent), when I was supposed to go down a sledding hill (it was pretty steep), and when my parents left my cousin to babysit me. Not little, quiet freak outs, but gigantic, screeching, “Help me, help me, they’re trying to kill me!” kind of fits. I chewed my nails, had to get an A on every assignment I was ever given, listened to my brain go through millions of horrid scenarios each night as I tried to sleep, and started having migraines when I was eleven. At about age 26, I started taking anti-anxiety medication, which has helped, but it’s a battle that’s always there, ready for a fight, ready to take over.

What is actually worse than having anxiety? Watching your children experience it. You feel powerless and sad and even more anxious than you were earlier that day. Did my anxiety somehow cause their anxiety? Do I bring this out in my kids? Those old “what-ifs” running through my brain again.

My youngest daughter is the screamer. When she gets frustrated, or angry, or feels powerless, or her feelings are hurt, or maybe even if the wind just blows the wrong way, she screams. Blood-curdling, limb-has-been-severed screams. When we go to investigate, the problem is generally that she can’t zip her zipper, or she’s too short to reach the shirts in her closet, or she can’t fit something into her backpack. I know what you’re thinking, “Well, don’t give in to her. You’re just spoiling her.” The thing is, we don’t. We haven’t. Ever. We talk to her about calming breaths and using her smart brain to solve problems and asking for help with “a big girl voice.” But I’ve experienced the tornado that breaks out in her brain. We go from fine to exploding in seconds. There isn’t time for your brain to think, “Calming breaths. Ask for help. What could I do differently?” My mom has a master’s degree in counseling and she gave me talk after talk after talk when I was growing up. She’d talk to me when I was calm, she’d talk to me when I was in a fit. Still, the tornados would come, and I couldn’t stop them until I was a puddle of tears on the floor, waiting for her to sop me up with her hugging arms.

My son--the middle child--lacks confidence. If you meet him, you won’t believe this. If you know him well, you probably still don’t believe it. He seems cool and confident and friendly and helpful. But, if you look closely, you’ll see him showing off, just a bit. He really wants you to like him, and he doesn’t think he’s quite good enough. He wants to make you laugh and keep your attention any way he can. At swim lessons, he tries really hard--he CAN swim really well--but he grabs the side after two strokes in the deep end. He’s afraid he’s going to sink in the deep end and never come up. If they asked him to do the same strokes in the shallow end, he could swim all day. But, my dream of him beating Michael Phelps’ records are being held back by the same fears that kept me off the diving board, kept me out of the deep water at camp where all my friends were swimming, and have never let me learn to scuba dive.

So if you see us Halls and we look confident and courageous, just know: we put on a good show. We’re battling more than you can see.

Wake Up Call

Snow days. Huh. I know, you think that, as a teacher, I am SO LUCKY to get snow days. And I am. But, imagine you’re trying to build a skyscraper with bricks that melt quickly (think-- teach seven-year-old forgetful people) and you get about one-third of the way up, then a day or two off. You rebuild, it melts. Rebuild. Melt. Repeat. Annoying. We get started writing a unit and then they completely forget about what a transitional word is or remembering to check their ‘dictionaries’ for the book spelling of words or what they were even writing about. So, as much as I do love the occasional 5:00am call saying, “Go back to bed,” I’m not a HUGE fan of snow days.

I’m especially not a fan of snow days when it’s close to report card time. Okay, so it really has nothing to do with the snow day part and more to do with the report card part. I teach reading and writing, which means I have to grade 52 kids’ writing with a 10-grade rubric and put it into my computer. And I can’t do it until the end of the marking period, because it’s their “project” they work on through the marking period. It’s exhausting.

So, recently, we had a snow day and, luckily, I had ALL THESE PAPERS to grade. As I was trudging through the stories about going to Avalanche Bay and going to a friend’s house, I started thinking I should have picked a different job. I seriously should have picked a different job. Like driving a truck. Or taking photos at the DMV. I’m not saying either of those jobs are EASIER, they just don’t involve reading 52 kids’ stories.

As I was mumbling under my breath about how this is stupid and kids should just be allowed to learn to WRITE and not have to show growth or be graded and when are they going to use these ridiculous skills in their real life later anyway and they’re only 7 and 8 years old and should be taught to write about what they care about and who stops their writing to make sure they’re using strong verbs… I saw it. There, on the side of the paper, in a little cloud bubble, was a love note. “Mrs. Hall you are an awesome teacher. I love you so much.”

The girl’s cherubic face, adorable dimples and bright blue eyes popped into my head and I thought about all the times she’d laughed when I’d said stupid jokes, or hung on the edge of her seat as I read The Littles, or threaded her mittened hand through mine as we stomped through the snow at recess. She loved ME? I should be writing on HER paper that she was an awesome kid!

So, I did. I wrote that she was an awesome kid and I loved her, too. And then I whistled my way through the rest of my papers. Sometimes I need a snow day to remind me this is the perfect job for me.

People Always Say It Flies By; They're Not Kidding

When I was growing up, I had many different career plans: doctor, veterinarian, author, hamburger stand owner… But I always knew one thing for sure: I wanted to be a mom. So, when I was 26, I adopted a baby. By myself. It was wild and crazy and the most wonderful moment of my young life. Emma filled every hole in my heart and more, and I never once thought she hadn’t been destined to be my daughter from the beginning of time.

The other night, my dad and I went to watch Emma cheer at a Lady Bulldogs Inland Lakes Basketball game. She’s a fantastic cheerleader: put anything to a beat and she remembers the moves and words instantly. This night, though, I saw something I hadn’t seen before when I’d watched her cheer. I saw joy. I saw her do silly dances to the pep band music, I saw her call out to the players, and I saw an expression in her eyes I hadn’t seen since she was three years old.

She’s had a rough go of it, my baby girl. Her genetics have held her down, given her some really big obstacles. Through the years, I’ve thought, “Oh my god, she is never going to leave this house! None of us are going to survive this!” She’s been through a lot of sadness, depression, complexity that I really believe most 16-year-old girls haven’t had to--and maybe won’t ever have to-experience.

But she is strong! She’s fought through it all, and come out on the golden side of the rainbow. Now, yes, she still drives me crazy with every inch of her stubborn, teenage, I-know-it-all-already-and-you-don’t-have-to-explain-it-to-me attitude. Her room’s a pit, we have to beg her to do the dishes, and she’ll get in that “dig” on her little brother whenever she can. But, really, didn’t I just describe all sixteen-year-old girls? And so, it amazes me:  her determination, her will, and this joy. This joy she’s finally found.

When Emma was young--a small toddler through probably age 4--she was a whirlwind of joy. She would enter a room of strangers, like at my grandma’s church nursery, and say, “Hi, Friends!” Her face would say, “I’m here! The party may begin!” She giggled and sang “The Aristocats,” and weaved her little fingers between mine everywhere we’d go. Before bed, we would “cuddle two songs” and I would wrap myself around her as she fell asleep. Her hair was thin, so I kept it short in a pixie, and she had these round, rosy cheeks and huge, deep blue eyes. She was like a living Precious Moments doll.

I had forgotten it all. I have spent these years since age five trying so hard to pull her out of this cloud, to prepare her for what’s coming up, that I have forgotten to prepare myself. I saw her on the court and thought, “Wait, now, just wait a second. Just hang on one minute. When did this happen?” She’s grown so much. She’s almost an adult. Like, a doesn’t-live-in-our-house-anymore adult! How did it go so fast? I didn’t savor it. I was trying so hard to get her to THIS PLACE, this prepared for happy adulthood place, that I didn’t give myself time to sit and listen to her sleepy breathing, to watch her learn new things and develop parts of her own personality, to freeze moments in my mind as she came out of her cocoon and transformed.

When she was a baby, one of my favorite things she’d do was reach her arm around my back as we rocked for her night feeding. At about 6 months, she began patting my back, just like I’d pat hers after her bottle as she was falling asleep. It was so sweet, this mimicking of my loving gesture. I saw her face at cheer and I ached so much for one last chance at that moment, feeling that tiny arm reach around me, holding all of her tight against me.

As I was growing up, I always knew I wanted to be a mom. I just didn’t know how much it would hurt.

Momma Never Told Me There'd Be Days Like This

My husband and I have three kids. I don’t recommend it. I actually wanted FOUR KIDS my whole life. I can’t really recommend or not recommend that, since I only have three, but I can’t imagine it’s easier. But that’s what I always wanted, four kids. Craziness.

You see, I was an only child. My parents couldn’t have more kids. So there was just me. And I love kids, absolutely love them. Well, unless they live in my actual house.

When we go to stores or restaurants or Disney or the library, I am always making “friends” with little kids. I wave at them, say hi, talk to them, give encouraging nods at their pictures or toys or finished plates, whatever they show me. Other moms will approach me to “hold him for a second” or “clip this stupid carrier” or “wipe the face of the baby in my backpack”. We moms know who to seek assistance from when we’re trapped somewhere alone with our little ones. Many times, small children will come up to me to chat, even if I haven’t initiated the contact; I must give off that “nice lady” aura. At family events--weddings, graduations, funerals, holiday parties--I’m the one holding someone else’s baby until my arm falls asleep. I love, love, love kids, like I said, unless they belong to me.

Because here is the thing my mother never told me (and she KNEW, because she was the oldest of eight kids): parenting is like being slowly pecked to death by a hummingbird. No, seriously. If you don’t have kids, or you only have one or two, or you have some of those irritatingly wonderful Brady Bunch Sunshine Day kids, you probably don’t believe me. But I am quite sure the rest of the population just said, “Yes, that’s it! Pecked to death by hummingbirds! Perfect!”

These people, these children I longed for, will never leave us alone. I haven’t gone to the bathroom without someone beating at the door, screaming for something, in sixteen years. The second my heiny hits the chair at the dinner table, somebody needs a drink, or more ketchup, or cheese on the side, or another carrot peeled and cut. Sleep? Ha! I took my two youngest to a Sleep Doctor and they’re both on CPAPs. The doctor suggested I get a sleep study and my response was, “It’ll only be accurate if I bring my kids and the 16-year-old dog who wakes me up to go out.” Countless nights of sleep are interrupted by “I can’t sleep,” “I had a bad dream,” “I didn’t make it to the potty,” or “I don’t feel good.” (That last one will get me out of bed in a split second. You don’t want to lie in bed for a minute while the face of a person who “doesn’t feel good” is aimed right at you, believe me.) Work? I love to write and would love to finish my novel, work on another one, maybe stick my foot into this pool of publication, but that’s not going to happen for 13 more years. Every time I enter my writing room (my delightful husband even made me my own WRITING ROOM), there’s an eruption of screams and thuds that can only be explained by Genghis Khan-like torture of limbs being separated from bodies (usually it’s that someone is sitting too close to someone else’s side of the couch). Ever tried to cook or do dishes or fold laundry while a small person is wrapped around your leg or--even better--shoving his/her head into your, um, private areas? Hard to accomplish anything that way. And why--someone please tell me--why do they love to do the one exact thing that really gets under the other one’s skin? That’s constant. Daily. Minute to minute. He took my __. She said __. She’s __ again. He won’t stop __. It’s like a Groundhog Day of irritation in my house. Just because.

Here’s the most incomprehensible part: I have a wonderful husband. He does the laundry. He pays the bills. He makes dinner. He does kid stuff. He would never, ever say he was “babysitting the kids” or that something was “the woman’s job” (except opening those pop-open cans of Pillsbury rolls; but that’s only because he’s terrified of them!). So, life should be easy, right? Wrong. If they can’t get a rise out of me, they all run over to him and start pecking at him. Dad, Dad, Dad, Daaaaaaad. Holy moly. I will say this--we are raising some tenacious people.

So, listen, if you’re considering having kids, all I can say is, DON’T. Play with somebody else’s. Save yourself. It’s too late for me.

** Note: Please take this blog in the satirical voice in which in was written. I obviously love my children more than anything (except my husband).

A New Year's Resolution For the Dogs

Ahh, the new year. Everybody is busy coming up with how they will better themselves. I'm going to eat better! No more junk food for me! I'm going to exercise every day! I'm going to meditate so that I can be more at peace with myself! I'm going to spend more time with the kids doing fun things! I'm going to be more efficient at work! I'm going to have a cleaner house!

Okay, so every single one of those statements has gone through my mind. And, yes, it would be great if I could do all those things. Heck, it'd be great if I could do ONE of those things! But I have made a decision. I'm going to make ONE resolution, and hopefully all else will fall into place.

My New Year's Resolution? Be Astro. In all things, ask myself, what would Astro do?

Don't worry, my dear readers, I have not joined some crazy cult or begun to worship a Cosmic God I found on the internet. No. Astro is my friend's dog. However, he's not just any dog. Astro is a therapy dog who works with victims of sexual molestation and assault. Pretty impressive, right? And, he is often featured on my friend's FB page, so--though he lives many states away--I feel as though I know him well. I definitely feel like I get his life philosophies. And that's what I'm after. So, what does Astro think?

If yoga's not your thing, don't do it.

Find an exercise you love, and do it well.
(For Astro, this happens to be digging a hole
on the beach, just because.)

Nature is always good for you.

When a nap calls, answer it affirmatively.

Sometimes you have to look goofy for the kids. It's worth it.

Spread the joy!

Haters gonna hate. Who cares?

When at work, give it your all.

When work is done, PLAY!

Surround yourself with good friends.

Astro's philosophy: live life to its fullest in any moment, and don't let stuff get you down. I've been down a lot in 2016. Who hasn't (well, besides Astro)? Reviewing all these photos of Astro makes me feel like, honestly, I just take myself waaaaaay too seriously. Not when I'm dancing on tables or making a "Phillip Johnny Bob the Elephant" voice when I read, but pretty much the rest of the time. I know I'm making a difference with kids at work, I know I'm raising my kids right, I know I'm married to the greatest man in the world, I know I'm pretty much eating okay. I just need to accept that I'm doing those things as well as I can, and run down the figurative beach of life. My friend hasn't posted ANY pictures of Astro regretting that he didn't comfort someone the right way, or put his toys aways properly, or tone his glutes. He's just always... being Astro.

And so, my kids are calling me. They're watching Elf for the 7,000th time, and I have to join them. The Astrofication process has begun.

I Believe in Santa Claus

Ever since I started teaching "second graders" years ago, someone comes into the classroom around mid-December and announces, "You know, Santa's not real, right?" Gone are the good old days of teaching first graders, who whole-heartedly believe and wait with bated breath while I recite T'was the Night Before Christmas. In fact, one year my school secretary (the world's BEST school secretary, but that's another story) busted into my first grade classroom wearing oven mitts and bearing an ice-encrusted scroll tied with a red ribbon. "It's from SANTA!" one kid exclaimed, and they all jumped into my lap (smaller class sizes back then) as I unrolled it and read the curly red words to them about how they'd done a wonderful job on their Christmas program the night before. "I KNEW it was the real Santa!" they all chimed. Awww... I miss those days.

No, now I always have one little stinker who just really insists that we're all idiots and we need to come over to the dark side. I have come up with an excellent response, I think, which is that I believe, and, well, if Santa hears you saying that, he just doesn't bother coming to your house. Other kids say, "You believe in Santa, Mrs. Hall," and I always reply, "Of course I do. Don't you? I certainly wouldn't want word getting back to the big guy that I didn't!"

The thing is, I always actually have believed. When we put our tree up, in my own adult house, with my own children, and we hang our stockings, and we lay out little messages for Santa, I really do wait up to hear the sounds of hooves on the roof. I feel that magic. I was so completely sold as a kid, I don't think it's something I've ever let go. And, really, when you look around, when you see people who are stingy being generous, when you see adults who are naughty being nice, don't you believe, too?

My son, Ben, is almost 8 and, eventually, we're probably going to have to have a conversation. If you follow my posts, you know he is CRAZY about Christmas and Santa and the Elves. Yes, for those of you wondering, he STILL gets me up each night to search for the elves. Ahhh... it brings me such hope for the world he'll create some day. But, sometime, someone is going to REALLY get to him, and he's probably going to ask. He'll sit next to me on the couch, he'll put his not-so-little-anymore hand inside mine, and he'll say, "Mom, is Santa real?" and I've got just the response for him.

Yes, Benjamin, there is a Santa Claus. I've met him, in fact. His name was Farris Howrani and he was my middle and high school Sunday School teacher. He told us he prayed in the shower every day to wash away his guilt. He told beautiful stories of his four children, and sometimes even cried because he was so proud of them. One time, my dad complimented his tie, and he gave it to him, because that's the custom in his native culture. (My dad said, "Then I really like your wife!" Ha.) He oozed kindness and generosity and with all of our eye-rolling teenageness, we loved the man dearly.

You've met him, too, Ben. His name is JB, and he's our adopted grandfather/neighbor to the cabin. He is quiet and calm and kindhearted. He does things for us before we even think to need them done. He gives away everything he has, and says things like, "Take it; take it!" when your Poppy is pondering the last beer. When I'm with him, I feel safe and calm, too, and I know that, somehow, everything will work out, just because JB's there. And he calls Becca "Rebecca", like he's known her since before even we did.

Sissy and I knew him, his name was Tim Vigneau, but he liked to be called "Da" or "Doodah". Five minutes after you met him, you felt like he'd known you your whole life. He would do anything for anybody, and often did. He was my friends' dad, but he seemed ageless to me; maybe it was the Hawaiian shirts and the Jimmy Buffet and the way his laugh would fill a whole room. Maybe it was the crinkle of his eyes when he smiled. I always felt like one of HIS kids, which is how Santa would make everyone feel, don't you think?

I've met Mrs. Claus, too, Ben-Ben. She was my Grandma Hendricks, in fact! She was feisty and funny and full of passion for everyone she loved. And she loved just about everybody! Especially kids, Benny. She only had two sons, and just a few grandkids, but she would gather kids to her and take care of them like they were her family. She would laugh until she cried and play cards all night long. And she made books for us out of magazine clippings that made her think of us. Just another way she let us know she was thinking of us. I think Mrs. Claus thinks about the kids all year, just like Santa.

Then there was the Mrs. Claus whose name was Marion and she was the sister of some friends. She was funny and sweet and laughed a laugh that filled the room. Her smile took up her whole face, and made you feel like you'd just had a big, long drink of hot cocoa. She's gone to heaven, now, and I suppose they had to post for her position, but the good news is that our cousin Jackie is still available, and she fits the bill, too. She works with people who are sick, and makes them feel cared for and safe and happy. She loves babies and children and buys too many presents and gives hugs that you feel all the way down to your toes. Her eyes twinkle like starlight, and you know she's just got joy in her heart that's so full, it has to shine out through her eyes. 

As long as there were and are and continue to be people like this, Benjamin--and we both know there always will be--then, yes, there is a Santa Claus. His magic lives on in all the people around us, and, maybe, if we're lucky, someday through us, too.

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.