The dumdog millionaire

Once the children in the family had stopped fighting over the fact that their father cheated to get to name the dog with his choice (Milhouse) - long story, you don't want to know, it involved a lot of crying and tantrums, and the kids weren't much better - they joined forces and set about destroying the 'rules of dog' as set out by me.

Apparently it's a fairly typical scenario, unbeknownst to me, that this happens.

My rules were simple, really.

Ahem.

Rule 1: "The dog is an outside dog"

As we'd had an attempted break-in in our house and the dog was our safety measure, I thought this made a lot of sense.

Rule 1 amendment 1: the dog is an outside dog except for the back room. 

Rule 1 amendment 2: the dog is an outside dog except for the back room at night for sleeping and the lounge room during the day.

Rule 1 amendment 3: the dog is an outside dog except for the back room at night and the bean bag in the lounge room. Definitely not on the lounge.

Rule 1 amendment 4: the dog is really only an outside dog when he needs a bathroom break, and is only allowed on the lounge on someone's knee.

Rule 1 amendment 5: the dog sits wherever he wants whenever he wants and with whoever he wants. And definitely in the bean bag in the lounge room at night.

Rule 2 "the dog doesn't go in the bedrooms"

This only came into place after the rule one amendments had been made, of course.

Rule 2 amendment 1: the dog is only allowed in the bedroom if the room sharer permits it.

Rule 2 amendment 2: the dog is allowed in the bedroom at any time but not on the bed.

Rule 2 amendment 3: the dog is allowed on the bed but not IN the bed.

Rule 2 amendment 4: the dog is allowed in the bed but not while humans are in it.

Rule 2 amendment 5: the dog can go in the bed, but mum thinks this is a disgusting habit and doesn't want to hear about it.

Rule 2 amendment 5: the dog just does what he wants anyway and mum always hears about it.

Rule 3: "the dog is only fed at his dinner time and in his bowl"

This is just plain good manners.

Rule 3 amendment 1: the dog is fed anytime but only in his bowl.

Rule 3 amendment 2: the dog is fed anytime and can have scraps from food preparation while he's in the kitchen, but he is NOT fed at or from the table.

Rule 3 amendment 3: the dog is fed whenever you feel like giving him food and you can feed him from the table but he's not allowed on your chair.

Rule 3 amendment 4: kids who have left home and come to visit still shouldn't put the dog on their lap at the table. Anyone sitting at the table needs to be able to contribute to the conversation.

Rule 3 amendment 4: watching intently while someone is talking then turning his head to the next contributor, then panting or jumping down and onto the lap of the person being teased is NOT to be considered contributing to the conversation and is therefore still a moot point.

Rule 4:  "The dog is a dog and not a person"

Rule 4 amendment 1: the dog thinks he is a person, but this doesn't mean we need to treat him like one, he's still a dog.

Rule 4 amendment 2: just because the dog talks, sings and does tricks doesn't make him a person, he's still a dog and needs to be treated as such.

Rule 4 amendment 3: if you want to treat the dog like a person, do so just not while mum is around.

Rule 4 amendment 4: just ignore mum, dad treats the dog like a person so it must be okay.

Rule 4 amendment 5: just because the dog has a wardrobe of dress ups doesn't make him a person. 

Just because he likes wearing them doesn't make him a person. 

He is a dog.

Rule 4 amendment 6: whatever.

Rule 5: "the dog isn't allowed in mum and dads bedroom. Ever"

No amendments needed.

Then there were severe night thunderstorms. The dog was outside barking at the sky as usual, and I told him to shut up... He ran inside, through the room he had once been banned from, past the dining table where he was once banned, through the lounge room where he was once banned, into our room where he is still banned, onto our bed which is obviously therefore banned, then under the covers which is banned, and by my husbands feet..........

He lasted ten seconds there before I registered what had happened and ordered him out.

My husband cooed "naw poor puppy, he's scared of thunder...just this once can't he?"

...........
...........
...........

I said no.

And still no amendments required.
C'mon he's a dog! 
I don't give in that easily.

Good grief. Or, 'the dog who came in from the cold'

"A family once looked for a pet
They'd tried rabbits, cats and turtles, and yet...
Not til they went to the pound
And found their crazy hound
Did they realise the trouble they'd get".

Our dog is a lunatic.
There I said it.

He IS from the pound, therefore the reuse & recycle philosophy was successfully applied. The day we set out looking for a dog, I sternly warned the family (again) that even though their hearts were set on it, the only rule I had was that I did NOT want a Jack Russell. Not no way not no how.

And all the family nodded and said "we know".

We saw one dog and all the family said as one "aaaaaaah"
The attendant told us he had just that minute been spoken for, sorry.

And all the family said as one "aaaawww"

And we dragged our sorry behinds around the hotel, I mean pound, but no other dogs appealed.

As we left, I spoke to the lady at the front desk and asked if we could be put on a waiting list for the dog.

She raised an eyebrow and said "we don't do that, that dog is spoken for. The lady who has asked for him is just bringing in her other dog to make sure they get on, which they will because this one is so even tempered, then she's taking him home"

I showed her the sad faces of my four children, who, by the way, so earned the KFC for lunch promised for their sad faces, and she sighed and said "oh oh-Kay then, but please promise me you won't get their hopes up, that dog will be gone in half an hour"

We left with the children and their by now genuinely sad faces.

About ten minutes down the road, my phone rang.
"Um, that lady just decided she didn't even want to try her dog with this one, she doesn't want it. If you're interested, he's yours"

And all the family rejoiced greatly, for this was their wish.

The sign on his door read "CORGI X" and I smiled, as corgi was the royal breed; therefore they couldn't be stupid dogs, could they? My plan was successful. A not stupid, not crazy dog, one who knew his place and was happy in it.

And we were allowed to play with the dog to check he fitted the family.
We threw a ball, we let the youngest ride him like a horse, the oldest to smush his face into crazy expressions and the middle children to chase him til they were exhausted.
And all the children said "come to the one you love the best" and the dog came to me.

Thus, we purchased our dog.

One the ride home in the car, I turned and looked at him. His squat corgi legs, his envelope fold ears, his unusual corgi colouring, his docked tail (courtesy of the people who had dumped him) and his face.... His.... Face.....

'Hang on... The corgi bit, I get. The cross bit... That's jack Russell, isn't it?"

My husband looked into the mirror at the faces of the children in the backseat, who looked back at him, alarmed; as co-conspirators in the 'let mummy have a blonde moment' affair.

"Please don't make us take him back, mummy...."

And thus we had purchased a dog who half broke the rule.

This became the first time he broke a rule.
And he didn't even know there WAS a rule.
And thus, a pattern was set.

not so girly ...

I went to a friend's handbag party a while back and embarrassed myself.

I didn't, for once, tip my coffee, talk about someone's sister or trip over the table. No, I showed my ungirlyness.
And yes that's a word. I just made it so.

Here's what I did.
I asked why people have more than one handbag.
(gasp) 

which then led to my discovery that "other" women have more than one shade of lipstick. 
In their bag. 
At the same time.
(yes the crickets chirped when I dropped that clanger, too)

AND more shoes than just work shoes, thongs (flip flops), and sneakers. 

Seriously, there were lightbulbs snapping everywhere for me that day. 

Here I had been thinking all those shades of lipstick were just for different skin tones... And you can only wear one colour at a time, right?
When they asked what I do for lipstick when I wear a different colour, I answered "that's WHEN I wear lipstick". 
I forgot to say "if I remember where it is"

Hmm.

Back in the day when I tried to fit in, I noticed my friends "popped their collars" (ie for those like me who don't understand the lingo of he hip, they wore the collar of their shirts UP instead of down) so...I did the same.
And the effect?
"Oh you silly sausage" clucked one of my popped collar friends "you haven't dressed yourself very well today have you?.. " and she straightened my collar back down.

Another time I had my very best Meg Ryan tousled hairdo just so. As I walked up to a friend, she patted me on the shoulder and said "an extra five minutes in front of the mirror this morning just didn't happen for you today, did it?"

Yet another friend describes me thus: "She's like a kindergarten (4 year old) girl. She has her favourite shirt, her favourite skirt, her favourite shoes and she wears them ALL together, and doesn't even care if they match or not"

And you know what? I think their comments are hilarious. And so me. I laughed then and I laugh now. (well okay maybe I didn't laugh THEN, but you know, a week.. or maybe it was a year ... later I did) because I know I'm not a girly girl.

I'm not a bling, sparkle, glamour or fluffy girl at all.

I'm a denim and tshirt girl. My Doc Martens are my favourite footwear and apart from mascara (so you can see I have eyelashes), I don't wear makeup.
My hair is cropped short unless in its current longer style pulled back with a scrunchie.

When I tried on my wedding dress waaay back in the day, I wore big boots and football socks (it was cold alright?) - much to the horror of the starchy sales assistant.

I had no idea at the time that it would become one of my very favourite retold stories - man, the look on her face when I held up the skirt of the dress and she saw my footwear was priceless  - and I was totally clueless. 
I had NO idea girls wore heels and maybe even took more than one pair of shoes to try on a dress. 
Like.. why would you even...?

My daughters, therefore, have grown up with me as their 'womanly' role model. 
And I grew up with a mother who was the same. 
As was her mother.

Not that I even remotely come near their examples. Maybe when I'm a grown up?

I saw my mother dressed in her non matching clothes and no makeup as she offered a place at our family dinner table to the hungry, a place of rest in our living room to the unloved and a heart for God to anyone she met.

She saw her mother who had six children, a deserter husband and no money give the little she had to help others. Yes, in her non matching clothes and no makeup.

And I know five minutes more in front of the mirror never even occured to either of them.

Back home....

You know how if you've done something...or experienced something... And you try to explain it... And you just want to say "you had to be there"... ?
Whether its a holiday, a visit, a conference, training, whatever, "you had to be there" to understand the nuance of the conversation or the vastness of the countryside or the taste of the coffee or the information absorbed.
And that's not snobbery or exclusivity, it's a fact.

Coming back after anything of note makes you reassess life, home, work. Coming back from a different culture or experience can make you look twice at your lifestyle and your country's choices. You question your motives, second guess your thoughts.

And there is a part of you that will never be the same. A certain part of you that you have left with a someone or a someplace that you may never recover even if you go back to the same places.

"In Poland, I saw God's Holy Spirit work in ways I'd never seen before. Back home in my everyday routine, that wasn't the case. For one thing, I have found entire days passing...  without my talking to God. In Poland, the ways I saw God at work drove me to my knees multiple times each day" 
http://home.snu.edu/~hculbert/reentry.htm

I read this the other day and knew I had to use it, because it kind of describes my experience. Okay I didn't go to Poland, but other than that it's pretty close.

I did see things that drove me to my knees, things that made me cry to God either in joy or anger. Things that made me gasp in wonder, that made me shake my head or that made me thankful for His hand holding mine.

And when we're on our knees the best place to look is up. 
And I looked up into God's face so many times, sometimes in laughter at a child's comments, sometimes seeking mercy over a child's situation.

And every time, He answered.

Not with a loud voice or a booming sound, as some imagine.
Sometimes it was a feeling of peace, other times a distinct thought that I knew wasn't mine. If it was of love, I knew it to be of God.

And back in my own country and home, things drive me to my knees, but I forget to look up. I am tempted to sort out my own issues and control my own environment, forgetting the one who is in control.

Meanwhile, 
A throwaway comment by someone may set off memories both good and bad.
A casual conversation can have my mind wandering in other directions.
Seeing an action or behaviour can give me a revisit. 

... And I go back to remembering that I don't have control and I need to seek the one who does. 

And that the answer is here with me, not just in China.
And that's a hard one to remember!

What dreams may come... And go.

Years ago my dream was shattered.

Let me explain. (Please add snarky voice when you read this in your head)

Are you old enough to remember waay back to when chocolate brown was de riguer for kitchen cabinets? Chocolate brown doors...  and benchtops and door handles of daffodil yellow, lime green or orange..
That gives away your and my ages, you know, so maybe stop nodding.
Wow were the 70s really that bad?

So anyways, back in the day, we young womenfolk had a cute tradition of keeping a "glory box" which we filled with treasures of many shapes and sizes in preparation for the day of our divine wedlock, after which we would be mistress of a domicile.
(Gag)
And these various treasures would form the basis of our domesticity, for within the confines of the "glory box" could be found tea towels, towels, china plates, cutlery and anything else great aunt Ethel thought we might need.

Not to be outdone, I also started to fill my chest with oddities (a wooden storage chest, stay with me here) and amongst my prized pieces was my Tupperware dream team. 
You may remember the most awesome set; the breakfast delight pieces which were mustard coloured? There was a bread holder which precisely fitted one loaf of crusty bread, a butter container which held precisely a pound of butter, a sugar and creamer set, and, because I hosted a party, I received a bonus gift of the triple jam holders in the matching colour! (Oh joyous rapturous wonder) If you're too young to understand that last sentence or two, be thankful.

Added to this I had my large collection of canisters of assorted sizes, all in lime green (because my dream kitchen would be chocolate brown and green, of course, duh). So my Tupperware dream was born while I was still a fledgling adult. I married in my teens - maybe because I was so anxious to use my plastic fantastic, maybe for love - and kept the Tupperware hidden for when our real lives would begin.

The life of my dreams.

In my dream, we were a wonderfully loving family, and I saw us, two adults and two children, all four blonde, with white shirts and white pants, sitting outside on a timber deck on our picnic table style setting, wind blowing my hair as I casually laughed at my husbands uproarious wit, serving my children breakfast from my delightful Tupperware breakfast set. They sat transfixed in wonder at the glory of the moment, my husband sharing witticisms and astute political opinion as he read the newspaper out loud.

We prepared meals together, all four of us helping prepare, cook and serve meals for which the ingredients came from (all together now...) the Tupperware.
Salads would be divinely displayed in Tupperware, the salt and pepper shakers plus the oil and vinegar servers were all matching T stuff and.. 
(wow we're impressive, aren't we? Don't you wish you grew up in this family?) ...

... then somewhere along the way, i met reality.
We ended up with four children, all blonde, all born with 5.5 years.  None wore white because I couldn't stand keeping it clean, and we didn't have a timber deck or a picnic table style dining. We had a dirt area which would one day (please God, one day) be a pergola and some odd chairs we sat around a rickety third hand outside table.
The kids tipped their bowls, slapped each others hands away from the milk and sugar, poked holes in the bread, fell off their chairs and laughed uproariously at each others farts.
My husband and I shared witty comments, by which I mean sarcastic rejoinders, by which i mean arguments, about the lack of money and how we were going to afford the car repairs and that the kids needed new shoes again and it wasn't my fault they kept growing and no they couldn't hand-them-down.

I had long given up using the Tupperware for actual food. It became perfect for bath time play (those suckers are good pouring toys), sand pit toys - they scoop sand like nobody's business, pencil holders (The number of coloured pencils you can fit in a one loaf sized container may stagger you. Or it may stagger you that we had that many pencils)
My lime green canisters held Barbie shoes and play dough cutters, lego pieces and the occasional chip because seriously, you can't see what's in those lime green containers and you keep buying more stuff when we've already got plenty you just can't see it in the pantry and how ridiculous are they anyway?

Instead of heading out together on date nights to see good quality drama, we stayed home, watched TV and tried to avoid getting involved in the kids night time morning time any time of day time dramas.
Instead of sitting together of an evening after dinner listening to music, we either yelled at each other over the wiggles or collapsed exhausted in front of the TV too shattered to think let alone appreciate the soundtrack that had become our lives.
Instead of growing our own vegetables and creating healthy nutritious and totally awesome food together, encouraging the kids to try new foods, we ate the crusts off the peanut butter sandwiches and the pizza and we grew very fond of macaroni cheese.

Nearly thirty years later, I look back and see so many dreams trampled along the way.
I see so many thoughts dissolved and plans gone awry.
I see so many things I thought important relegated to becoming background noise.

But I see that just like the Tupperware became useful in a new existence, so did we. 
Neither of us planned four kids so close together.
Neither of us planned five house moves in five years in amongst having babies.
Neither of us planned for our lives to become so irreconcilably intertwined with our children's.
But neither of us planned to be strong enough to overcome four kids so close in age; all non sleepers; three refluxers and oh the nappies....
Neither of us thought we'd become so adept at packing a house, making new friends, moving on and finding our way.
Neither of us planned that when the kids left home there'd be a big empty noise left behind.
Neither of us planned to find so much fun in the loss of the dream.
Neither of us expected to grow to like Tupperware again, either.

Re-entry reality

They call it "re-entry". A small hyphenated word that describes something you can't prepare for.
It's the term used to cover a person's arrival "home" after a trip away, in my case a short term mission trip. The same occurs after holidays etc but in this case it's a psyche and spiritual change as well as the cultural experiences.

In the same way you can be told about childbirth, then go through it and wonder why nobody actually TOLD you about it, you can read and hear about "re-entry" and then experience it.

Our team did undergo re-entry discussion sessions and heard from others who had already done this re-entry thing before. 

And we nodded sagely.
And we were warned gently about the things that can happen, the things that might happen and the things that rarely happen but we needed to be aware of.
and we nodded sagely.

The discrepancy between the culture we were leaving and our 'home' culture could cause stress.
Our friends and family not knowing what we have been through could cause stress.
People asking if I had a "nice holiday" could cause stress.
Watching people indiscriminately spend money could be a stressor.
Things unknown could cause stress.

And I arrived home overprepared to deal with the stress. 
I was so in control of my situation I would be unfazed, wouldn't I?
I would handle this with grace and aplomb.
Humour intact at all times.

And my husband asked questions I didn't expect from an angle I hadn't considered.
And people asked questions I didn't expect.
And I wandered through the days in a nice vague cloud. 
Conversations happened around me and I smiled and nodded and agreed. I raised an eyebrow or shrugged, but didn't actually engage with any comments.

I saw my husband struggle to come to terms with a wife whose earth axis had shifted without him. 
I showed photos of the beautiful children I met, I talked in vague terms about what we did, I shrugged and said that yes it was an incredible experience.
I sent emails, checked Facebook and chatted on the phone.
And I told people it was "awesome awesome"

But only a part of my brain was responding. How did I not see?

Life was fairly subdued in my cloud. I stayed there for a while, confident I was coping well.

Then one morning the cloud went away.
I hadn't even known it was there, I was only made aware of it by its absence.

And I thought "man ... I've been to freaking China."
How can this have happened?

.... To be continued

Making me say the words

"You're going to make me say the words" and "don't make me say the words" are part of my vocabulary.

I find I want to hang on to my words, my thoughts.. And not let people know. Not let them know my thoughts, my feelings, my... Anything.
While I like to think I wear my heart on my sleeve, I also play my cards close to my chest.
I'm easily hurt and feel for the hurting, yet I rarely tell anyone how I'm 'really' feeling.
Does that make sense?

Recently I've had some instances where I've said "you're going to make me say the words, aren't you?" 
These have been cathartic times, though.

Saying the words, giving the thoughts a voice, clears the head and even the heart.

Rather than a brewing and stewing over thoughts, getting them out means they can be rationalised, examined and dealt with.
They can be held up to the light. Like holding anything up to the light, this reveals the flaws, inconsistencies or stamps of quality otherwise unseen.

Some things are too hard to talk all about. Saying the words forces us to think about what we want to say. it makes us examine our concepts for truth, for the potential for inflicting hurt and for the rationality and clarity involved.
But at some time and in some way, if we're to move on, we need to give our thoughts words and names.
We can't heal an unknown symptom, we need to say the words.
We can't expect others to know how we feel, we need to say the words.

Writing the words is another way. Re-reading our words when we're not enmeshed in the emotions that confuse the issue can provide the same clarity. We can re-examine the thought process, the progression and the ... Sometimes sanity... Of our thoughts and rationalise them.

Finding the emotion in the thought helps.
Giving an emotion a name means you can deal with it.
So rather than just fretting, name the feeling. 
Anger, frustration, sadness. Joy, delight, humoured.

Break it into its basest form, so ... frustration may be jealousy or anger or impatience. 
Once you've got the word for the base emotion, you can move forward, because you can rationalise how to handle an emotion. 
You understand your remedy for fear, for anger, for jealousy. But you don't know a remedy for your unnamed emotion.
Try it on for size next time.
Actually think on your emotion, name it and see how you progress.

Words can hurt, they can heal and they can hinder. 
But sometimes they need to be heard.