Let me start by explaining that our dog ate our rabbit, Midnight. Oh, and did I mention, that this homicide went down the day before Easter?
Yeah, true story. You feeling me?
Let me back up a bit: for 2 years, that big old beast of a Black Lab, has effortlessly hopped the gate to Twilight and Midnight (God rest her soul), with one clear intention: Bo would make his gene pool proud, do them right, and actually be victorious in retrieving a bunny.
Honestly, we never thought he had it in him. Those bunnies are quick as lightning, and well, Bo, not so much. Imagine Tom Walsh Super Genius' surprise, when after filling the buns water and food, turned around to find Bo with Midnight, clamped in his jaws. No blood was shed. Bo just sort of stood there, surprised himself, essentially embodying Lennie, from Of Mice and Men, when he accidentally killed the puppy by "petting" it.
In fact, Midnight appeared to be sleeping. Except that her eyes were open. And her soft fur was matted with dog slobber.
When we broke the news to the tribe, it sort of went like this:
Me: "Girls, Daddy and I are going to share something with you,"
Cosette, interrupting at a rather deafening volume: "YOU'RE PREGNANT!!!!!!"
Charlotte: "MOM'S PREGNANT!!! I'M GOING TO BE A BIG SISTER!!!!"
Me: "No, no, no. I'm NOT pregnant. Usually I am, but today I'm not."
Collective head nodding, followed by, well-then-what? stares. "Listen, you have to promise not to mad at Bo, but he killed Midnight, by accident. He just couldn't help himself; it's in his nature."
(Me, in my head, 'He can't help that he murdered your beloved pet rabbit, the day before the Easter bunny visits. Fucking killer.')
All: sob, snort, sniff, wail, "NOOOOO, not Midnight! Why her?"
Being that Midnight was officially Emma's bunny, she was the most traumatized by the killing, and so I tried to calm her by running her a hot lavender bath, because, well, she's not old enough to drink wine yet.
Tom and I then took the beast on a walk, for fear the girls would take to him, like Piggy in Lord of the Flies.
All these literary references, are making me sort of feel pretty good about myself. Thanks to my High School English teachers, Mr.Hardin and Ms.Gundacker! Never mind, that now all I read is Us Weekly.
So while out walking Bo on Lincoln Avenue, a random guy asks Tom, "How old is your Lab?" Tom answers politely, "About 3."
Next, I kid you not, the guy asks, "Do you ever hunt him?" Tom answers, without missing a beat, "Well, today he got a rabbit."
Yea, he got a rabbit, all right. TWSG failed to mention, Bo killed the family pet. But I can't say I blame him.
Speaking of unfair, Cosette was explaining the very real injustice lunch time at Booksin, where the first, second, and third graders have to sit at certain tables. while the fourth and fifth graders leave campus in their cars, and go to out to lunch at Mc Donald's. (Okay, so that last part was embellished, but sometimes, I am pretty sure that's what it feels like to a third grader with NO freedom to chose their lunchtime seat partner).
So, Cosette did what any 9 year old would do: she made up a petition, and had hundreds of students sign it.
I think it read something to the effect of "We, the people, find it completely unfair that we sit at assigned tables, while the upperclassmen bring back Big Macs to campus, and eat them in front of us." Yeah, something like that.
Anyways, the petition passed! It sort of made up for Midnight's death. Sort of.
Okay. Not really.
After walking in from Basketball practice one day last week, Abby says, "Do you wanna tell her Dad, or should we?"
I look at Tom, and then at the twins. Tell me what, exactly? Tom lets out a big sigh, and explains that while at Basketball practice at Grace Community Center, (a place where mentally ill folks can hang out during the day) a former inmate, who found God, befriended the twins. Honest to God, when Tom walked into the gym, he thought the guy, the former inmate, (who found God), was a coach. Tom gave the guy 20 bucks. And his socks.
The sweaty socks were a genuine display of kindness, but I am adamantly against giving folks money, and I explained why, "NO MONEY! No, no , no. (because sometimes one NO isn't enough). Money is a band aid that often, feeds their habit. We need to direct them to the right resources, okay? NO money!"
Well, I guess Charlotte was paying close attention, because the next morning she matter of factly told Tom, "Daddy, we don't give money to people who just got out of Juvy."
I looked at him, trying hard not to crack up, and agreed with our very intelligent 4 year old. "Yeah. NO money."
On our most recent trip to Santa Rosa to visit my Dad, I finally felt ready to go through Foxy's clothes. Or so I thought.
Here is what no one will tell you about touching, and sorting, and smelling the clothing that someone you love so much feels like: a wave of grief that leaves you missing them, wanting them, and realizing that the Coldwater Creek skirt you're holding, is the only material thing that is left. And your mind will start to reminisce, the last time she wore that skirt, with that matching J. Jill top.
My Mom and Dad did very well raising the 3 of us on a butcher's income. We never wanted for anything, but as teenagers, we also knew better than to ask for money to go to the show. That's what babysitting was for. My Mom, especially, was very logical and thrifty. We may not have ever gone on a family vacation to Hawaii, but the Francois house had more pot roasts than anyone in Campbell. Word.
So, I found it comical, that I went through THREE closets of my Mom's beautiful clothes, and TWO dressers. It was like, once she retired, she thought, "I done raised those kids, and kept 'em alive...I'M GOING SHOPPING."
And Coldwater Creek, Anne Taylor Loft, and Talbotts were never the same. In fact, I imagine that Stevie Nicks would have loved Foxy's flowing, rayon skirts, with paisley and flowered designs.
As a family, we decided that the pieces we didn't keep for ourselves, would go to The American Cancer Society Discovery Shop, where all proceeds go directly towards Cancer Research and patient care. But man, was that emotionally draining.
Cozy, who has been wearing one of Nana's zippered, sassy sweat shirts with a jungle print, ran up to me in a rush of excitement yesterday, and exclaimed, "MOM! Guess what I found in Nana's pocket?"
"What, baby?" I asked, taking a breath in.
"Candy! Candy from the Olive Garden."
One of Foxy's favorite restaurants. Candy. Candy from the Olive Garden.
And I didn't feel so alone.
