stewie

My mother has a saying she peppers me with anytime I express despair over a child or animal: No one can embarrass you more than kids and dogs.

This was never more true than this moment, as I was holding my innocent year and half old boy in my arms at a posh salon check-in counter and he sent the room a titter with two words.

Stewie. Silent but deadly. Stewie is the only child I have been at home with from birth and I watch him absorb every aspect of our lives from routine, to inflections in our voices.  He is a very observant sponge. However, at 18 months, he can speak, but refuses as it is his one controlling power over me.  He lords his stubborn resistance with a physical presence and demeanor not of a general, but of a person plotting the usefulness of each being in the house to achieve his ultimate goal of total rule.  He uses his piercing aqua marine eyes to either lure and bend you to his will, or quickly infer your insignificance.

Many times we have met in the hallway as I come down the stairs, turn the corner and there he is. Puffed chest, intense eyes, and silence.  All too reminiscent of the twins from The Great Outdoors or even The Shining. He stands arms to his sides, chin to chest, his fine static electric blonde hair illuminated by the sun pouring in from outside, glaring. He is up to something.  As he takes of running, head first to gain momentum, I give chase and usually he has gotten his minion to do some sort of bidding.

Bert.  Too cute to kill. At 8 months, she is the cutest most willing to please animal I have owned. An apricot labradoodle maxing out at 24 pounds and a heart of gold. She entered our lives like a hurricane and has exuded so much love and companionship for the boys, exceeding our expectations. Although, for some reason, she has chosen Stewie as her person.

For me, I love her, and detest her.  The house has a sweetness with her soft paws in it.  I find myself searching for her throughout the day, wanting a snuggle or a delicate wet kiss to remind me that someone is here with me just to be, not for food or a diaper change.  And then, to my horror,  I discover her eating my underwear, or destroying the LAST of my sandals, or running out into the garden with one of my books.  The dog only eats my stuff! She rips it to shreds and my cool head erupts in obscenities of “Oh shit, that was my last pair” or “Damn it Bert! I just got those.” Tearing to her side, I tower over her with “Noooo. Bad girl,” a quick spray of the water bottle,  get her outside and move on.

But those big brown eyes, staring at me through the muddy paw streaked glass, only say “I love you so much. I just had to. I am sorry.” So, I break the dog training rule and bring her in for a cuddle on the couch. Bad Sam.

After a particularly fantastic morning with Stewie and Bert at a park, I decided to book a mommy tidy up at a new salon near our home.  Upon entering, the salon is a very clean bright white with rustic polished wood throughout.  Calming music played as we approached the robust friendly counter.  The receptionist recommended a stylist and asked I wait a moment while she checked the schedule. I felt at ease, as another mother sat playing with her daughter and a Barbie car. The little girl, dropped the car onto the ground, the wheels popping off.

Stewey raised his finger and with a clarity and volume never heard before, said “Oh shit!”

Shutting my eyes and taking a deep inhale, I thought Damn it BERT!