MommyBlog

Kenny has become quite fond of giving kisses.   And you usually know when they’re coming because he’ll rear back, open his mouth as wide as possible, and smack his entire face right into yours with the full velocity his little body will allow.   It really is a little terrifying, even in its adorableness, to see his head coming towards you with such force and speed.   And his teeth are sharp!!   Hence the “monster kisses” moniker.  

 

He is also starting to love giving hugs.   Is there anything sweeter than being wrapped in the arms of a little person that you have been holding and cuddling for the last thirteen months, who has finally decided to hug you back?

I love this kid.   He’s got me wrapped around his little finger.

PS – Keep the emails and comments coming on advice on dealing with “The Rascal.”   Thanks!

Today started out as the toughest one I’ve ever had with Kenny.   I’m not dismissing the trials I went through trying to figure out the brand new born baby thing… but this  morning was the most challenging time  I’ve had with him since he has become his own little person.   He was a pistol, a brute even.   Screaming to get his way, pounding his little fist into the stereo and wailing because I couldn’t figure out how to turn it back on after he reprogramed all the buttons.   Turning over his breakfast AND his lunch plates because I didn’t give him any crackers.   Writhing his kinetic 23 pounds in all directions as I tried to carry him upstairs for a nap.   Screeching like a pig at slaughter when I put him in his crib for a nap.

At that point, I went downstairs, disolved into a defeated heap and ate a huge slice of triple layer chocolate cake, fat salty tears turning it to soup.

And yet, ten minutes later, after piling him and Dudley into the car just to get out of the house, his sweet little face resigned to sleep and I stared in awe at the angel in the backseat.   I even managed to turn the car around and get him back upstairs and into his crib without waking him.   And I had 40 blissful minutes of solitude in which I charged around, vacuuming, making phone calls, opening mail and picking up lost lego pieces from under the couch.

And then everything was fine.   We took a sunny walk, Kenny in the backpack, and strolled through our neighborhood playing “I spy.”   (Kenny’s favorite are the mailboxes.   And the pickup trucks.)   We rubbed noses, he kissed me with his big slobbery kisses over and over on the face, and we hugged and tickled.   We got back in the car and ran errands, he joyfully and exuberantly charming everyone in sight with his banter and mega-watt smile.   When we got home we found Casey already there, pulling his jetski in for the season, and surprising us with an early work day.   Kenny tramped through the yard, ate a huge snack and danced all around the living room.   We all sat down for a steak dinner and then the little guy went to bed with a happy grin on his face, ready to rest up for another day.

Is it possible that this was all the same day?   How do I turn those awful mornings around sooner?   What do I do when he infuriates me to the point of absolute frustration?   I won’t yell and I’ll never, ever hit.   So what do you do to discipline a rascally 13 month-old?   How do you show him you mean business?   I don’t like the idea of “time out” because I want him to learn that it’s ok to play alone or have quiet time; that solitude is a great thing and that his room is his haven.   I think that “go to your room!” and “time out!” undermine those goals.  

Do I ignore his bad behavior?   Do I calmly listen to his tantrums and then move on?   He’s just starting to get to the point where he understands that certain things that he does are wrong.   He knows it’s wrong to throw his food on the floor, to feed it to the dog, and to knock over things on purpose.   He knows when I say, “No” to something, and yet he will do it ten times more, earnestly watching my reaction.   I know that he is testing his limits.   That he is wondering if my reaction will always be the same, or if I’ll start to yell or if I’ll take something away.   From a child development point of view, I can mentally understand all that he does, and yet when I’m caught in the thick of him stomping his feet in the kitchen, banging his hands on the cabinet screaming, “CRACKER!”, or shaking the contents of his sippy cup onto the carpet for the 40th time in one day, what can I do?   (Right, I know.   Take the sippy cup away, don’t let him walk around with it.   See, I know the answers.)

So maybe I know the right answers, but my goodness, it’s not easy.   Moms of one-year-olds…. HELP!

Kenny is 13 months old today.   And not a minute too soon, his sweet little personality is suddenly getting very big.

I always secretly hoped that I would have sons.   I thought that it would be so much fun to raise a boy.   And miracle of miracles, I got my wish.   The only problem is… he’s a boy.   Oh my goodness, he is 100% BOY!   He charms me, sweet talks me, flirts, teases, and infuriates me at intervals so fast that I feel my head spinning.   One second he is giving me warm, wet smooches, and the next, grabbing a sandwich right off my plate and hurling it onto the floor, all the while a stealthy eye checking my reaction.  Here are some real snippets, all from today.   Consider this  a mere sliver of the chaos this little circus is becoming:

6:30 AM ~  Halfway through  his waffle this morning, he looked right at me and handed the rest  to the ever hopeful Dudley, who was sitting like a good boy at  the ready.   I sternly looked him in the eye, and said, “No, Kenny.   Do not feed the dog.   You eat your food.”   He giggled and dumped his orange juice onto Dudley’s head.   I responded with a cheerful, “All Done!” and took his tray away, at which he screamed, “CRACKER!!   CRACKER!!”   (the only word he says with absolute clarity.)   I lifted his writhing body from the highchair as he pointed frantically at the cabinet where the crackers live.   And what did I do, professional Mom that I am?   I put him back in the chair and gave him a cracker.   “Deee DEE!” (dip)   And a bowl of hummos.   This is all he has eaten in any measure, besides apples,  for two days straight.   I can’t let my little treasure starve, can I??

11:50 AM ~ We had to go to LabCorp for Kenny’s one-year-old blood work.   I’ve been putting it off, but finally dragged us there today, trying to be brave.   Kenny spent the entire 42 minutes that we were waiting  in the reception area by putting on a show  for the geriatric contingent, who were absolutely delighted and competing for his attention.   He toddled around, waving his unpealed banana like a sceptor, talking with  such passionate vigor that one might think he was reciting  the Gettysburg Address.   When we finally were called in for the draw, I held his tiny body tight while the nurse cinched his arm and stuck the needle in.   He screamed like a  banshee, then  when the needle was removed, looked sweetly at  the nurse  and said, “Ahhhhh.”    He practically got a standing ovation when we walked back through the waiting room.   He smiled and nodded like a homecoming king  passing through a throng of cheerleaders.

12:50 PM ~ I took  us out to lunch to celebrate surviving the torture at the lab.   Once a week or so, I like to take  Kenny out for a lunch date.   He always seems to know that it’s a special time, and usually charms my socks off.   We went to  our usual haunt, Panera Bakery, and ordered our usual Tuscan Chicken sandwich with an extra slice of gouda.   Only instead of his usual happiness at sharing my sandwich, bits  of bread and chicken and all of  the cheese, he turned on me.   First he grabbed a whole slice of bread off the top and threw it onto the floor.   I  chalked it up as stress from the needle, and calmly started handing him his morsels.   He took the entire pile of cheese and shoved it all  into his mouth at once, looking at me with a huge, cheesy grin, pieces of  cheese falling out through the gaps in his teeth and dripping down his shirt and  onto the floor.    He then started frantically signing, “MORE!!” and ended up eating all of the chicken off my sandwich, then grabbed the rest of my bread.   I had fortuntaly also bought bagels, so I started eating one in self defence.   He looked me right in the eye and threw the rest of the bread on the floor and knocked over my water bottle.   “All Done!” I said cheerfully, and got him out of there as fast as I could.

2:30 PM  ~   Playing in the living room with his padded baseball bat, he  walked over to Dudley and clobbered him on the head.   Dudley, too his credit, played dead.   I start to reprimand him, and he walks over to me, throws his arms around my neck, kisses me and nuzzles into my ear, whispering, “Cracker??”

3:30 PM ~ Kenny walks into the kitchen and starts  screaming, “CRACKER!   CRACKER!!”   Ok, so I  gave in again.

5:00 PM ~  I lovingly prepare Kenny’s favorite penne with marinara sauce and peas for his dinner.   I set it down, piled with  cheese, fully expecting him to do his usual face dive into the pasta with joyful abandon.   He takes one bite, spits it out, throws his plate onto the floor and yells, “CRAAAAAACKER!!”   I start to  wimper.    Then he gets red in the face, starts grunting and looks at me in a panic.   Yep.   He’s constipated.   Too many crackers will  do that  to you, kid.
 

Yesterday brought 48 degree temperatures and relentless rain.    As a family, it was the coldest day we have experienced since last February; we managed to live in Arizona  from the end of last winter until the summer, so we missed the dreary and chilly Maryland spring.   The sudden unexpected chill lead me to roast a chicken, so the house could smell warm and wintery, and the four of us (Casey, Kenny, Dudley and me) spent the bulk of the day cuddled in the living room, sweatshirts and long pants dragged out of the back of the closet, playing with blocks, watching baseball play-offs and eating.  

                 Even Dudley was chilly, and was happy to snuggle in after Casey took him out on a  rain-soaked  run,

             

……and Kenny was happy that Daddy was there to keep him warm!

Today is the exact opposite: 70 degress, not a cloud in the sky, boaters out for the last Sunday cruise of the summer, and Casey and Dudley are catching some rays on the dock.   Kenny decided to take a late nap, and I am on the deck looking out at our little piece of paradise.   The living room, strewn with blocks and baseballs, lays abandoned, and the thought of roasted chicken with gravy, so desperately needed yesterday, has been forgotten in favor of BLTS and ice cream.

Sitting out here, as the wind carries a little chill and the leaves fall from the trees, reminds me of those first weeks of having Kenny home with us.   I remember bundling him up so we could bring him down on the dock in early October, two layers of blankets and a hat, as we held him close.   It makes my heart ache a little, remembering his tiny warm body, fuzzy head and constantly rooting little mouth.   And to see him now as he runs across the room, throws baseballs (a surprising distance, too, given how little he is!) and talks so earnestly  in his baby babble makes me see once again, that time flies and I need to savor every minute of this precious time.

And summer is over, fall is here, winter is coming and my baby is growing up before my eyes!   Slow down, baby.   Slow down.

Of all of the things a new mom has to worry about in the nurturing and cranial development of her child, the last one I thought would come up is my little guy’s true love of Country Music.

To be fair, Country is primarily what Casey and I listen to, so he hears it whenever we ride in the car, or whenever the radio is on in the house.     I do make a concentrated effort to expose him to all types of music, because music is a big part of our lives.   Casey and I both sing and Casey plays the guitar; we have even lead worship at church from time to time.   I am a former college music minor, so I am also quite fond of various types of Classical music, and I love Broadway tunes.   Oh, and I am a closet Abba fanatic.       All that to say that I am thrilled that Kenny  is already getting into  music.   But it’s solely the Country tunes, the more Honky Tonk the better, that gets this kid up and wiggling his little body with a joy that is uninhibited, a million dollar smile on his face, and  even squeals of glee escaping from his throat.

So what’s the worry, you ask?   Grammar, people.   English syntax.   Verb conjugation.   Proper use of adverbs.   You see, I may be a Country music aficionado, but I am also a grammar freak.   And  Country music lyrics aren’t always the best lesson in learning the English language.    Of course, living south of Baltimore, I am a virtual prisoner in my own neighborhood of the worst of the Maryland accented dialect  known to man.   You could hire a linguist to come in here for an analysis, and he would leave shaking his head, wondering what on earth, “Git R Done!” which is plastered on  the back window of  every truck  on our street, is supposed to mean.   That, and why everyone ends every sentence with, “Hon.”

Sorry, tangent.   I was writing about Country music, right?

His current obsession is Rodney Atkins.   He wants to hear his CD over and over, which isn’t the worst thing in the world, since I’m pretty fond of it myself.   But there are two  hit songs on  the radio that cause a physical reaction in Kenny that is nothing short of adorable ~ he wags his head, waves his arms and sings along.   And I can’t believe I’m going to admit it, but they are “Honky Tonk Badonkadonk”” by Trace Adkins (no relation to Rodney) and Steve Holy’s “Brand New Girlfriend.”  

Here’s where I wonder if I need to start censoring his listening material, based solely on the verbiage (or lack thereof):  “It’s so hard not to stare / At that honky tonk badonkadonk / Keepin’ perfect rhythm / Make ya wanna swing along / Got it goin’ on / Like Donkey Kong / And whoo-wee Shut my mouth, slap your grandma.”   And, “I love it when she calls me butter cup, laughs and says I left the toilet seat up / she pops the top for me a cold beer, and says my buddies always welcome here / When I get hungry, she takes me out.   I’m ridin’ shotgun like a shitzu hound / My tail’s a waggin’, my tounges hangin’ out, it makes me wanna shout…”   respectively.

And yet, how can I deny Kenny the joy he so obviously reaps from the catchy tunes that accompany these grammatically horrid lyrics?   I promise that I’ll teach him proper verb conjugation when the time comes.   For now, the unfettered beauty of watching him wiggle is just too priceless.

Just as I sat down to write tonight, I heard the most bizare sound.   At first, I thought it was a cat.   Then I thought that it must be Kenny, except that it sounded like a small animal screaming.   I raced upstairs, and the sound became louder, more urgent, higher pitched and pretty close to terrifying.   I burst into Kenny’s room, but he was sound asleep; not even a snore or hiccup.

I’m alone in the house this evening, as Casey is working late again, and I started to think about how much of the day I was gone today.   And even with the alarm system and Dudley keeping guard, could there be a chance that someone was in the house?   Or did an animal manage to get in undetected through the dog door, get attacked by Dudley, and crawl into a wall to die a slow and terrible death?

I finally got the nerve to walk outside, because the sound was loudest by the laundry room door.   The screech continued, and I clutched onto Dudley’s fur, forcing myself to look around the corner.

And there next door, sitting in the dark on a porch swing, was the world’s sweetest thirteen-year-old kid, Justin, with a clarinet in his determined hands, furtively blowing into the mouthpiece  and emitting the sounds that horror movies are made of.   He saw me staring at him from the driveway and sheepishly lowered his instrument and his head, annd crouched further into the shadows.

I almost called out to him, to reassure him, to tell him it was ok if he practiced, I was just “checking on something” in the yard.   But I could see from his dejected frame that he was hoping that I couldn’t recognize  him in the darkness, and I decided that it would be best if I made a quiet exit.   This is a kid who lives with his grandparents, even though his own mom lives across town, and would do just about anything for anyone.   He is apparently a fantastic baseball player, recruited onto various traveling teams, and yet his Grandmother tells me that he’s bullied in school, that he secretly hurts from not knowing his Dad, and that he doesn’t have many friends.   He spends his free time practicing his pitching in the backyard and fishing off the pier, and helping his grandma with her enormous garden.  

My heart hurt as I watched him hiding on that porch tonight, no doubt banished from practicing in the house because of hte horrific racket he was making.   I wanted to walk over there, put an arm around him and tell him that the clarinet must be really hard to play, and that I didn’t mind if he practiced as long as he wanted.   I wanted to encourage him, tell him that he could be whatever he wanted to be, no matter what anyone told him, and that music was just as cool as baseball.   I wondered if he just needed a hug.   I pictured my little Kenny at thirteen; in between a kid and a grownup, caught in  the middle of  wanting to be a child and wanting to  be more, yet always knowing that Mom and Dad think he’s the greatest thing since sliced cheese.    And I wondered if anyone ever told Justin that.

So I’m back inside, locked up and settled in.   The only sounds are the washing machine and Dudley, whining because  his bone is stuck behind the couch.   It’s funny, but a part of me wants to wake up my little boy, just to tell him again that I love him.

Ah… the second day back from our vacation, and I find myself unexpectedly alone, drinking good wine, dining on wine-poached sole filet and asparagus and watching the sun set on the water.   Kenny is fast asleep (a little early), Casey is working late, Dudley is chasing the giant blue heron off our dock over and over, and I am enjoying a gourmet meal for one, which I forced myself to prepare in place of the convenient bowl of cereal that is my usual staple when I have dinner alone.

The whirlwind of activity since our return on Sunday night has been relentless.    A small picture:   Yesterday at noon, I had two noisy workmen in the house finishing the demolition of our laundry room, two non-English speaking men delivering the wrong new mattress into our bedroom, Kenny playing peek-a-boo between my legs with Dudey, who was anxiously wrapping his leash around and around my  torso in effort to alternately lick pizza sauce off of Kenny’s face and attempt to attack the bubble wrap that was floating down our staircase.   As I tried to explain to the customer service guy on the phone at Mattress Warehouse that my new mattress was too small, the five foot three delivery guy in a grungy wife beater started tickling Kenny’s chin, making  Kenny cackle with glee and Dudley lunge at  the strange man’s  throat.   The guy on the phone was ranting something about getting a tape measure to check the dimensions, the construction foreman was using a chainsaw on the last of the old ceiling, and my cell phone started ringing the cheery tune assigned to my own Mommy, who was about to embark on a mission trip to Russia.  

Just writing that made me need to get up and refill my wine glass.

Ok, so the whole past 48 hours haven’t been that hectic, but pretty close.   There is an upside: Kenny has gone back to being Mommy’s little guy, extra snuggly tonight, when we realized that Daddy wouldn’t be home in time to tuck him in.   Dudley is going through definite vacation withdrawl, though.   I am, too.   Walking back into a house that was not only not empty for the past week, but was instead home to  a remodeling project, there is an inch of dust on every visible surface, drywall  footprints all over the floor, and the entire contents of our laundry room / storage piled in  one  end  of the living room.   There are cobwebs and dead bugs in every corner (a caveat of living on the water – spiders are rampant!), drooping houseplants, laundry to be folded, suitcases to unpack and a tower of mail to get through.

But the joy of having my little guy play and cuddle with me all day has made all the Things To Do temporarily disappear.   He’s started saying, “Hi-ah!” with this gloriously huge grin on his face everytime he makes direct eye contact with anyone, even if it’s me and we have been together all afternoon.   And he’s started to really babble, convincing me that his toddler mind is just bursting with things to say.   This morning when I went  in to get him from his crib, he was sitting up, facing his two teddy bears and his stuffed sheep, who were also sitting at attention, and was apparently giving them their morning marching orders.   The words may have been incomprehensible to my ears, but his inflections and tones were as if he were delivering the State of the Union address.   And you better believe he gave me an earfull at dinnertime tonight when I wouldn’t let him dump his water glass onto the pasta.   I would have paid a small fortune to have an interpreter for that one.

So the sun has set, my dinner is eaten and Dudley has just brought me the entire contents of the bathroom trashcan, in an effort to remind me that he wants dinner, too.   And I should really take advantage of this time to dust, vacuum and start the assortment of household damage-control that needs to be done.

Good bye Vacation, hello Circus!

Another beautiful day, the last in our vacation here in North Carolina.   I haven’t spent this much time with Casey since before Kenny was born, and that in itself has made this vacation a dream.

So where has Kenny been, one might ask.   With Gramma and Papa, I’ll answer.   And no, not because Casey and I have been pawning him off, either.   This little guy loves his grandparents.   In fact, he’s always loved them, both Casey’s parents and mine.   But still… Still, I have always, up until this week, been the one that he preferred to be with.   To sit with, to cuddle with, to hug, to hold.   It’s been All About Mommy.   Oh, he would play with them, indulge them in a hug or two, but whenever  I walked back into his view, it was “MaaaMAAA!”  

Not this week.   For the first time a few days ago, Kenny looked right past me and held out his arms for “PAAAPAAAA!”   I was old news.   Routine.   Boring, even.    

I’m not mad, or sad, or resentful, please don’t misunderstand.   I’m thrilled that Kenny is so loved, and loves so much in return.   But I Am His Mommy!   I knew this day would come.   I knew even that with weaning, comes the inevitable clash that he no longer needs me every few hours for nourishment, thus no longer needs those precious, quiet stretches of time where he snuggles in my arms and only has eyes for me.

It’s hard, though,  to come to terms with the fact that there are other loves in his life.   Other people whose company he enjoys.   Other people who make him laugh, dry his tears and snuggle up with.   Lord help me the first time he brings home a girlfriend.   You know that joke about Dads saying that their daughters can’t date until they’re thirty?   Well, I might just institute a rule that states that Kenny can’t date until old age makes me blind and deaf.

I’m truly kidding, of course.   In fact, as I write, I hear my sweet, sweet son coming up the steps with Gramma, the tune of, “MaaaaMAAA!” on his lips.   I am so blessed to know that he already has a wonderful relationship, a special one, with this whole family.   And Monday, I’ll have him all to myself.

 

The Outer Banks is a place that by its very nature, begs you to find a solitary spot and curl up in a chaise or on a porch swing and just be quiet for a while.   To read, to write, to think, to pray… the reason for sitting there alone in the sun is merely for  solitude itself, not the action that compelled you there.

It is a place where everyone helps to clean up after dinner, where everyone takes turns taking out the trash and where household chores become joys for being a part of the greater group.   It is a place for long walks in pairs and  trios on the sand, for big sun hats and suntan lotion, for blankets spread out in the afternoon to lounge on with good bottles of wine and hunks of cheese.   It’s a place where the baby takes a nap every day (!), where the dog finally runs as much as he should, where Mommy and Daddy remember they are Kristjana and Casey.   It’s grandparents and playtime, bunkbeds made into forts and an old Weber grill just waiting for the next round of burgers.

This is our fifth day here.   The day stretches out before us with endless possibilities, limited responsibilities and no To Do lists in sight.   This line of lapstops on the breakfast table allows the execs and MBAs among us to check in and then check right back out again and return to the spot in the sunshine.     Gramma has Kenny on a stroll, Dave and Sonila (who ended up coming back merely an hour after I wrote that they had left… it’s hard to leave this place!) are playing tennis, George and Casey are reading, one in the sun, one on the couch, and I am going to finish writing and find that empty porch swing.   Dudley is curled at Casey’s feet, vaguely aware that his buddy Maggie is gone, and strangely subdued.

This is the kind of place that proves that we all need time away, to find quiet in the midst of the chaos of life, and to remember how much fun this life really is.

                                   

                                                                                   

 

Maggie “Mooks”, my parents beautiful golden retriever died today as we are vacationing in the Outer Banks NC.   Mooks was 13 years old and lived an incredible life.
 
This is important not because Maggie was a good dog (she was a great dog), but because Maggie spanned an incredible time span in the life of our family.   She was part of 13 years of joys and sorrows for all of us.   Many people have good dogs.   Many people have had special dogs.   Mags was a joy.

I remember when my sister in law Kathie picked out Maggie as a surprise present for my Mom’s birthday, and the look on my Mom’s face as Maggie was brought to the side porch of our house with all of Mom’s friends gathered round.   The next week Maggie spent wedged under the downstairs toilet, doing her best to keep cool and safe in the new, scary environment.

Things got better from there.

Maggie soon shed any worries and realized the Cook home was going to be a fantasy life for a golden.   A large yard, a pool, a never ending number of squirrels and birds to joust with, and a family that doted on her.
 
I remember being at the beach and watching Maggie, during her 2nd week with our family.   This tiny little puppy ran as fast as she could, for as long as she could.   This would equate to 40 or 50 yards, before pooping out and dropping to the sand in sheer exhaustion, panting for 30 seconds, re-energizing her little body.   Then off like a rocket, she did it all over again.   100% effort.   This is how Maggie lived for 13 years.
 
As I sit here today, as a husband and father to a beautiful baby boy, I think back to that day at the beach at Gilgo, on Long Island.   I remember delighting in Maggie the puppy, and wondering where my life would be when Maggie was an old gentle dog.   It wasn’t a sad thought.   It was acknowledging that Maggie was a beautiful little pup that was going to be here a long time.   None of us knew then just how much she would become a family member.   I have not been at home since Maggie was a puppy.   But for years whenever I wanted to think of something happy and peaceful Maggie would come to mind.    I think Dan felt the same way.   I know my little nephew Ryan felt  close to her to.   Seeing “Maggles” was always a highlight of visiting Grandma and Grandpa.
 
Maggie was, upon reflection, a gift that God puts on the earth to help us live better lives.   Isn’t it incredible the different ways that God allows us to delight in his gifts?   For 13 years, many lessons came through Mags.
 
Love is patient – Maggie would wait hours in the same spot for my parents or my brother Dave to return home from whatever he is doing.   Maggie in many ways was Dave’s dog.  
 
Love is kind – Mooks was one of those dogs that made the grumpy old men in town say something nice.   Maggie was therapy to the old, especially my Grandma in her later years.   Maggie was one of the few things that my Grandma would respond to during her last few days in hospice last year.  

Love does not envy (well:.. Maggie didn’t like it when other dogs got more attention, but who could blame her!)
 
Love is not self-seeking – Isn’t this the amazing thing about these wonderful animals?   The live every second for others.   In Maggie’s case, it was to be a constant companion to my Mom and Dad on hundreds of car trips, thousands of walks, and an innumerous number of moments when it just felt good to share an evening or morning with Mooks.   Maggie only wanted to be where they were.  

Love is not easily angered –   What a gentle little pup.
 
Love keeps no record of wrongs.   In the times when we were angry at Maggie, she would want to put her soft beautiful head on our laps, as if to say, “Don’t be mad.   There is no time for that.”       What a world it would be if we could all be so forgiving.
 
There was a desire in Maggie to forever to remain a puppy. I dare to say that her last full day on earth may have been her best.   She had a full day with my Mom and Dad. At dusk last night, Dave and I walked Dudley and Maggie on the beach.   Maggie frolicked like a puppy, playfully galloping and kicking her hind legs in the air as she was let free on the beach, bounding happily into the ocean to fetch a stick or snort some salt water.     Last night her dinner was covered with steak juice and other assorted foods from my mom.   Then while we kicked back and watched a movie last night, we all laughed as Maggie licked my Dad gave Mooks the last of his ice cream.   Why not, right?

Love never ends.   Thank you Lord for Maggie, and your promise to redeem all of creation, to make all of your creation, and creatures, new again.