I’ve made stunning 4-tier wedding cakes, perfectly iced in homemade buttercream; cakes which took days to bake, ice, assemble and decorate.
It was nothing for me to crank out 4 loaves of bread from scratch on any old Saturday morning, or whip up a few dozen cinnamon twists to send to work with my hubs for his crew.
I LIVED for brioche, trying every recipe I could find until I finally made the perfect, airy loaf. (I’m pretty sure this is the exact brioche Marie Antoinette was talking about.)
I used to be one hell of a baker.
Until I had a baby, that is.
These days, I feel good when I get a box cake made on time for a birthday in our household, and even better if I actually remember the candles!
So when my sister stopped by with a dozen gorgeous red apples, fresh off their tree a few days ago, I was inspired. I just HAD to bake something. Something GOOD.
“Hank!” I said. “Let’s bake a pie!”
Now, friends, this is NOT what a perfect apple pie is supposed to look like. Not even close.
What it does look like, is exactly what it is: a pie a toddler baked.
Old Me would never have stood for it. Old Me would have thrown out the torn-up, over-worked pastry that sat in our fridge two days longer than it should have, and made fresh. She would have rolled it and lined that pie plate smoothly and evenly, then pinched perfectly-even flutes all around the edges to seal the top.
Today though, for the first time ever, I had a helper. And Hank wanted to do it ALL. He wanted to roll the crust out with the big huge rolling pin. And mix the ingredients. And peel the apples with that fun old crank peeler his great-grandma gave us. He wanted to do all of it.
All. By. Himself.
So, you know what I did?
I let him!
I’m NOT that perfect baker I used to be–I just can’t be. I’m way too busy being mom. (And that’s even better.)
When that sweet two-year-old woke up early from his nap today, we spent that extra hour making the ugliest apple pie I have ever made.
It may be the ugliest pie I’ve made, but it is the pie I’m proudest of.
(And it tasted far sweeter than any of the pretty ones ever did.)
The fur-baby that stole my heart was 165 pounds of Blue Merle muscle–a majestic Great Dane named Roscoe.
Roscoe was more than a dog–he was a full-on family member. He got me through several moves, a difficult divorce, and countless single nights when every creak and crack in my big empty house kept me up at night.
I knew that my beautiful behemoth of a dog was special, but I never truly appreciated his full worth until he became a watchdog for not just me, but for my baby boy, as well.
When our little bundle came home from the hospital two years ago, Roscoe didn’t complain–even when he got moved from his cozy living room corner to a bed in the heated garage. (It was the baby’s turn to nap in that nice warm spot by the fireplace, you see.)
So, he let him.
Somehow from day one, Roscoe knew it was his job to watch over that little boy, and watch over him he did.
For two blessed years.
Sadly–we just buried our almost 12-year-old, geriatric gentle giant a week ago, under a big cottonwood on the family farm. I know his spirit will keep on watching over all of us–especially Hank, who over the last two years had become his very best friend. Those two sweet boys taught me some pretty big life lessons–one of which is how meaningful animals can be to little people.
I hope that as you read along, you nod in agreement because your little ones have a furry friend to love on like Hank did. But if you haven’t gotten a pet for your child or children (yet!), dear reader, here are five reasons why you may want to consider it!
Our big dog and our little boy were two peas in a pod. Anywhere the toddler went, the dog was sure to follow. And vice versa. On the swingset, digging in the dirt, playing ball on the lawn, picking strawberries–these two adored each other’s company. We couldn’t go for a walk unless Roscoe came with us, even when it meant he had to give up his beloved afternoon nap.
If Hank could have slept on Roscoe’s dog bed with him every night, he absolutely would have.
From the time he could walk, our toddler helped me with all of our dog chores. He understood that the first thing we did each morning was let Roscoe out, and he looked forward to it every day. He helped me fill his food and water bowls, and he even helped me clean up the “land mines” in the yard. (He was the “locator,” and I ran the shovel.)
Having a dog taught our toddler a world of responsibility, and most importantly–it taught him how to care for a loved one.
3. Teachable Moments
From learning a universal nickname for dogs–“Coco”–to learning that dogs will do almost anything for a milk-bone; our gentle giant was also a wonderful teacher for our little boy. He taught him that dogs don’t really like to be ridden like horses, even if they are the perfect size. He taught him that “woof” means “come open the door please.” He taught him that Great Danes make wonderful pillows for naps on the lawn. He taught him that it is important to hold still when you are getting your toenails clipped. He taught him that sometimes when we get old, our bodies just can’t keep up anymore. He taught him that even though saying goodbye is scary and hard, it is something that we can get through.
He also taught him the true meaning of the phrase “loyal friend.”
Our huge dog kept an amazing eye on our little boy. Roscoe was Hank’s shadow, never venturing more than 10 or 15 feet away from the tornado toddler–even when that meant a LOT of getting up and laying back down! I loved knowing that whenever I watered flowers or weeded beds in the yard, I had an extra set of eyes on Hank while he played.
Roscoe truly loved his “job,” and Hank loved having his own personal watchdog.
5. Lifelong Memories
Even though he is gone now, Hank still talks about his big buddy “Coco” everyday. Any dog we see gets a chubby little finger point and a loving “Coco!” exclaimed with a huge smile. Whenever I tear up or mention how much I miss Roscoe, Hank grabs his stuffed puppy and gives me a kiss with it. I have countless amazing pictures of these two together, and I will never forget their two years filled with those special moments. Their relationship–although much too short–gave all of us a lifetime of heartwarming memories, which I thank God for everyday.
There’s nothing quite like the magic of big dogs and little children.
So, please. If you have a family dog, let your little ones climb all over him, even when he’s a little bit muddy. Let them snuggle up to him and get those trademark slobbery dog kisses, right on their little faces. Let them help carry the water bucket, even though it splashes all over the garage floor.
I promise–it’ll all be worth it.
And if you don’t have a family dog?
Then someday–if only for your kids’ sake–I hope you’ll change your mind.
The funny thing is–I didn’t really even notice that I had lost it, until last night. Not officially.
The fact that I didn’t even notice further solidifies the fact that I truly have LOST the battle. For good.
My Type-A personality has now officially been replaced with a new type: Type Mom.
Without even realizing it, I stopped doing the one thing I ALWAYS did, every morning, to keep my sanity.
As long as I can remember, I have religiously made my bed each day–perfectly, and arranged it like a Threshold ad for Target: six pillows, two throws. Two standard king pillows, two big shams, the minky sable body pillow that I sewed before I got pregnant; then the square burlap/chevron accent pillow as my finishing touch.
Then of course–at the foot of the bed–one robin’s egg blue throw, and one sable throw.
My perfect bed.
My happy place–perfectly in order, even if just in one little corner of our crazy house. My nice, organized landing spot to fall into after each kaleidoscope day in this blended family of six.
The one thing I could make look perfect, and walk away from; knowing it would still look exactly how I left it at the end of the day.
Unlike the rest of the house, hit by all of our daily tornados of little league and toddler toys and dirty clothes and clean folded clothes and grocery shopping and LIFE.
But last night, when I went to pull off those perfectly arranged pillows, they weren’t there.
They were in a heap on the floor, exactly where I’d left them the night before.
And when I really thought about it hard–they were there the night before that, too.
How did I stop this tradition–this thing I’d tried so hard to maintain for so long–and not even notice?
I’m a mom now, that’s how.
I think my brain simply needed those brain cells, that little extra bit of RAM, to deal with more important things.
Like explaining to a two-year-old why he can’t, in fact, go to the moon, even though he really, really wants to.
(This has occupied a surprising amount of time, over the last three days. He REALLY wants to go.)
My effort is much better spent worrying about Big, Important things like that, than making sure the bed looks perfect. Because I am finding, in these crazy, wonderful, (numbered) days, just how big and important they actually ARE.
So, somewhere in the last month, I subconsciously gave up the ghost on the perfect bed.
And you know what?
Because right now, in the crazy trenches of mamahood, I guess I don’t need that little corner of perfectly folded and tucked organization, anymore.
My life now can only be summed up appropriately in one word: chaos.