Have you ever done something that you thought was a SUPER WONDERFUL IDEA only to later see that same SUPER WONDERFUL IDEA as proof there’s something wrong with your brain?
See, we’ve been going through an extremely stressful few months around here trying to sell our house and buy one at the same time. Trying to bid with contingencies, spending ungodly amounts of money fixing up our yard to look more inviting and having to keep our stupidly white house with white carpets looking absolutely perfect, just in case strangers need to walk through and judge us.
And complicating this endeavor is the fact we’re raising two crazy toddlers in this stupidly white house. Look, toddlers are all a little crazy, but I suspect my toddlers are even crazier than most.
I have my reasons. Like, when I attended mamma-baby yoga classes with my kids, all the other babies were sleeping or playing quietly with their toys, whereas MY babies were either concocting complex schemes to rip off all the other babies’ toys or so wound up they were repeatedly smacking themselves into the wall mirrors while disrupting class with their shrieks.
My toddlers appear to have a death wish. I kept trying to rationalize this away, but after baby-proofing every room in our house, we kept seeing them think up endless ways to throw themselves off our loft or stack up enough furniture to remove lightbulbs so they could stick their fingers into the empty sockets.
You’d think they’d grow out of that nonsense as they got older, but l’appel du vide is only becoming more sophisticated. Just this morning, I caught Bridget dipping her TOOTHBRUSH into the toilet, then sucking the water out of it.
Since plummeting off the balcony didn’t work for her, she’s now clearly trying to contract some form of cholera.
Witnessing this, there first was horror. Then, uncomfortable curiosity about whether or not it was the first time. And finally, the painful realization that she grabs my husband’s toothbrush whenever she can get her hands on it…
Unwilling to fully process the implications, I piled the kids into the car to hit the library. We were nearly there when bloodcurdling screams exploded from the back seat, whereupon I turned around and saw this:
THAT’S RIGHT, SHE’S STRANGLING HERSELF WITH THE FRONT PASSENGER SIDE SEATBELT. It wasn’t actually tight enough to hurt her, but what an impressive effort. How have we all managed to survive??
And this kind of insanity; this type of gritty, single-minded focus on senseless destruction has been aimed at our white-carpeted house for the past four years. At any given moment, I get a text from our agent telling me someone wants to view our house within the hour, usually just after realizing my kids did something like not only bust into my lipstick selection but also the ten-pound bag of rice hidden in our pantry, because such an exciting combination of two new forms of artistic media couldn’t fail to be explored.
And as much as I’ve tried blaming our kids’ foolishness on my husband’s genes, I’m now forced to admit that mine may also be responsible. Because in the middle of all this house-swapping lunacy, some crazy mad scientist living deep in my brain decided:
“You know what? I don’t think this situation is nearly stressful enough. We should probably take everything up a notch by throwing a hysterical, house-shredding, not-potty-trained puppy into the mix.”
Yes, that was actually MY brain, surveying the landscape and determining how to proceed. Since the lipstick stains and rice everywhere hadn’t already broken me, I felt I needed a dog who’d shake every pillow in the house until feathers coated whatever clean space was left.
And you know what else? I don’t believe Douglas is a chihuahua mix. That’s what we were told by the sweet old lady handling him, but she’d pretty much gotten everything else about him wrong. She said he was six years old, but it turns out he’s 18 months. She said he was fixed, despite him clearly being intact.
I’m starting to wonder if she just assumed he was a chihuahua because most little dogs at shelters are (the bigger ones are Pit Bulls). Because since then, we’ve looked at photos of various dog breeds and he looks kind of EXACTLY like a Jack Russell terrier, which would explain the ridiculous amount of energy. It also means we busted straight past the beginner dog breeds to tackle the Advanced Calculus of challenging dog ownership.
We still love him, of course, despite the fact that Brontë is deeply dissatisfied and has already put in her order for a secondary dog. When we move, as she’s explained to us multiple times, we need to get what amounts to the EXACT OPPOSITE of Douglas: a giant, black, female dog named “Bella” with TWO ears that stick straight up.
You see, Douglas has one ear that sticks up and one that folds over. I think it’s adorable, but it’s driving Brontë nuts. She keeps trying to unfold the bendy ear in a fruitless attempt to set things right. Something about Douglas’s mismatched ears really tweaks her 4-year-old concept of predictable world order.
For me, those concepts are a tad bit more unhinged by errant pillow feathers settling into dog turds on our expensively-cleaned white carpet right before our 2-year-old with an angry colon tries to hang herself with the seatbelts in our car, but why should my personal definitions of domestic tranquility take precedence, right?
Yet tonight, just as I thought the whole crumbing chaotic universe was about to claim my very soul…
SOMEONE DECIDED TO BUY OUR HOUSE!
Hallelujah! It’s OVER.
Someone is buying our house and someone else accepted our offer on theirs. On the same night.
Everything is right again and all we need to do is move.
(And get a giant black female dog with TWO sticky-up ears so my 4-year-old can again feel the world is just and consistent.)
Everyone is beautiful and wonderful again and I wish you all a good night. I love you all.