Oh, Wednesday. I cannot get the hang of you. This morning I did- quite possibly- the Wednesday-est thing ever and misspelled my own children’s last name. You know, the one that’s also mine? Oh, the hilarity. Especially when I jokingly explained that I rarely mess up my own kids’ names…and was met with dead eyes.
Wednesday, you big jerk. Onward!
Here’s what I did this past week. No worries if you’ve yet to catch up- I mean, it’s not like you MISSPELLED YOUR OWN CHILD’S NAME OR ANYTHING.
- Susannah Mae is now three. THREE. And guess what, guys? “Threenager” is totally a thing.
- And this was her birthday party post, which kinda made me ‘splode from the cute.
Kinda light this week, right? That’s probably because I front-loaded multiple articles to go live for Chicago Parent later in the week, and am finishing up at least five articles for a super new, super exciting, superOhMYGodaretheygonnapayme?! magazine which hits the actual stands in November. So, uh, keep a lookout?
And because my Dad decisively told me NOT to write about him on this chemo day, I won’t. I will, however, tell a story about his favorite dog…not in the least because he told me- sarcastically? Half-seriously?- that people would enjoy hearing about our greyhound even more.
So this is Thumper.
And she was probably the best dog in the history of best dogs. Truly. A rescue pup, she was “retired” by the age of two- probably because she was small, but probably also because she believed herself to be above most things that she “had to do.” Like “run a race” or “not stop in the middle of the track to wait and see if the mechanical bunny would come back around.” (Spoiler: It would.)
But here’s why she was the best: Every time it would snow, she’d be out there in the yard with us, racing us up and down the sledding hill, and prancing around like a demented reindeer. Because even though she was ill-equipped for the cold, there was NO WAY she’d let her smallish people out of her sight. Same went when we’d run around the field across the street; even though she could’ve lapped us ten ways ’til Tuesday, she purposefully slowed her pace and- I swear to God- gave us encouraging looks that seemed to say “You’re the fastest things on earth. Cheetahs be damned.”
Oh, Thumpy.
Thumper is the one on the right. Mickey, the black pup, was also a great dog- but this is not his story.
Questions: Why does my Dad look angry? Why am I cropped
almost entirely out of the picture and/or wearing a jaunty scarf? Discuss.
Kate looks nice, at least.
There, Dad. A li’l tale about- arguably- your favorite gal ever, and nary a mention of how awesome you are and superherotacular you are for pushing through this latest round of chemo.
Oops.
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