Things you never thought you'd have to say to your children.

As the Momma of several fur babies over the years, I used to keep a running list of the things you have to say to your dogs or cats that you wouldn't have to say to your children.  Now in full fur momma mode we addressed our dogs as if they were siblings.

Let's just say several things have been struck from that list since having children. With three children, now I have a shrinking list folks, a shrinking list.  Sometimes we play "child or dog" around here with the aim being to determine who did it or who you had to say it to.

For example:

"Don't lick your sister."
Seems like an easy one?  Child.  Yep, my son who is now seven and will probably be angry that I posted this had a habit of licking people.  We even have a photo of it somewhere. I figure it was because of the response he got when he did it.

"Don't pee on your sister."
Both actually. I had a Rottweiler named Koeby who used to drive me crazy because he followed my female dogs around and tried to urinate where they did. Except he wouldn't wait for them to move. He just peed on them. And then there is my son, who got distracted one day in the bathroom and turned around mid stream to spray his little sister.

"Don't play with the stove." 
Dog. We had a Brittany named George who learned that food was cooked on a stove and sometimes was left on it to cool.  George began jumping up to see if there was anything good. Twice he turned on a burner. When he nearly burned the house down, we got the child proof locks on the burner knobs...because of the dog.

"Don't growl at your brother."

Shiloh with her tough girl biker hat. Terrifying isn't she.

Again, both. For 15 years we had a cocker spaniel that was certifiably psycho. She was medicated for separation anxiety when she was young, and as time went on she became grouchy and cranky. Any time one of the other dogs got near her she'd growl at them to leave her alone. She was old, grouchy and crazy.  Now to my daughter. One of my three year-olds has taken to baring her teeth and growling at her brother and sister when she is angry at them.

Required calling poison control?
Both.  Child for eating small red berries off tree in front yard (why you put a toxin bearing tree in a front yard is another rant) and dog for eating a skink's tail. One got a big glass of milk the other got a psychedelic trip from the hallucinogenic property of the lizard tail.

I'm sure the list will continue to shrink.

Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Umph Gone

I tend to post in spurts. Not exactly an attractive thought, but there it is. Today I looked over my blog and realized I hadn't posted since September. Part of me isn't surprised.

My writing slowed to a trickle when my son Z was born in 2008. Now, with the birth of my twin girls in September of 2012, I'm afraid it's ground to a screeching halt. And what I've been thinking lately as I rock a child to sleep, fuss about toys that need to be picked up, corral dogs and worry about what I'm actually going to do in my day job that day; I've realized I miss the writer I knew. I very much feel like I'm no longer that person. She was a separate entity from silly little me with my permanent stress headache, far more gray hair and the worry lines around my eyes and mouth.

Even in the very rare moments of quiet I find I can't write even if the opportunity presents itself. I sit at the computer, maybe edit a page or two of one of the multitude of WIPs saved on my computer and can't find the umph to write. Forget romance. You have to feel romantic, feel loved and respected, feel sexy to write romance. Lately all I feel is tired and embattled.

So for those of you waiting for the next story in the series I had begun to come out, I apologize. There aren't many of you, so somehow I don't think I'll be disappointing many people. Readers have moved on, if there were any. I have the next story all mapped out, know what needs to happen, but right now my hero is sitting in a wheelchair, soaked to the skin and very drunk. My heroine is two rooms away trying to get some much needed peace and quiet while his music pounds away loudly. And they've been there for four years now.

Elyssa Edwards isn't doing much better. Her hero is stuck monitoring juvenile delinquents and she can't quite get him out of the scene.

So we plod onward, making no real progress and hoping and wishing for that magical moment when we'll feel like writing again, when we'll have time. Ah, the slippery slope that has killed many a potential writer's ambitions. But when I think of my former editor's admonition, "Butt in seat, fingers on keys" all I can think of is which fingers? The ones changing the diapers, feeding the baby, stopping the dogs from eating each other or the ones that long to go in my ears as I scream, "Lalalalalalalala" and pretend I can't hear the call of adulthood and responsibility shrieking in my face.