According to reports from one husband, the dog walked out of his kennel, turned 180 degrees, stuck his head in said kennel, and vomited.  At this point, dog and husband went outdoors.  But not before summoning me from drowsy upstairs comfort to address the mess.

With eyes rolling and breath held, I reached my plastic shopping bag-clad hands into the kennel to shake the vomitus from Otter’s bedding into a garbage bag.  That’s when his game was up.

With head inserted into stinky pukey kennel, it became evident there was more than bedding and vomit in there.  To the left – a corn muffin wrapper.  To the right – apple peels.  In the center – bits of zipper, fleece, and patch from a Ski Patrol fleece.  We were a bit concerned by the munched zipper.     

Sparing details, the ensuing days were filled with nervous anticipation and careful study of each twice daily canine bowel movement.  My husband and I greeted each other not with, “Hey, how was your day?  How are the kids?  Missed you.”  Nope, our first words were, “Did he go?  What did it look like?  Was there any blood?”

And a few times, there was blood.  So Otter, our monkeys, and I found ourselves in a little exam room last night at the local veterinary hospital.  The dog was a champ, wagging his tail through most of the exam, excepting the rubber glove part.

And we got good news.  Bad news too.

Good news: if the dog was bleeding internally (i.e. from sharp zipper bits), the blood would be black, not red, by the time it exited.

Bad news: Otter likely has some type of  worm behind the bleeding (pending final poop results).  Cannot let my mind go there too long before skin crawls and I want to board the dog until it all goes away. 

The ever-helpful vet, clearly unversed in my natural penchant for “what if” and black-belt-worrying-skills, advised the worms can transmit to people, particularly children.  Heck, in rare cases, children have contracted worms in their eyes and are permanently blinded.  

Yup, can you guess how many times our monkeys have been forced to wash their hands in the last 12 hours?  Should the dog so much as breach a 5-foot radius of their current position, hand washing is in order.

Thankfully, the little bitty rational part of my brain knows a few things.  #1 – dog poop has to sit a bit before the worms can be transmitted.  #2 – our dog does not poop in the yard.  #3 – our kiddos never come anywhere near the dog poop that gets bagged + placed in an outside trash can.

So $208 later Otter will be 100% worm-free in just 2 more days (and is thoroughly enjoying the wet food treat required by anti-worm powder mix).  He has no fleas, so tail chewing is a nervous habit.  He gets yummy heartworm treats once a month starting this morning. 

Looking forward to regular poop.  Less mental energy devoted to worms.  And a locking kitchen garbage can.

Thoughts veered from the organization’s financial portfolio to my life portfolio.  Ratios and quality of stocks and fixed income vehicles were momentarily replaced by ratios and quality of family relationships, fun, health, spiritual growth, romance, money, home, and career.   

I thought of the life balance wheel below.  Nearly a year ago, this wheel was assigned homework in a 10-month leadership program.  Vividly recall hastily circling numbers, tucking the crumpled paper in my bag, throwing kisses to husband + monkeys, then rushing to the session day. 

In theory, the ideal wheel is, well, round.  My paper looked like a circular shape attempted during severe turbulence, with peanuts flying and baggage bumping.  It was painfully, now visually, evident my life was out of balance.  This little ol’ wheel offered a wake-up call of sorts, and changes were in order.

Fast forward a year.  Some of the lower-number items have improved.  But, and gosh darn if there isn’t always a but when trying to figure it all out, these changes had consequences.  Happier money score meant more work hours which meant a decline in satisfaction with available friend/family time.

I still don’t have all of the answers.  But, and this is a good but, yesterday morning’s epiphany showed set it and forget it just won’t cut it.  One-time corrections won’t keep me on course.  Regular re-balancing is essential. 

Grasping the vibrating remote device tightly, my first-ever Mii slowly took shape.  Slowly, because each physical trait was a springboard to over thinking. 

Right from the top, hair was a dilemma.  My shade of blonde did not exist.  Going lighter equated to a perception of sacrificed IQ points.  Going darker put me in the light brown category, which felt disingenuous.  My license said blonde, my passport said blonde, what to do?  Style followed color.  Opted for our daughter’s current favorite: dual ponytails à la Eliza Thornberry.

Eye color was easy peasy blue, but shape was a struggle.  The wide-open doe eyes wouldn’t make it through grad school.  The starry eyes wouldn’t pass a pee cup test.  The slanted eyes were so angry, all done with that angst.  Opted for a neutral intelligent-but-friendly. 

Then it was time for eyebrows.  Go with the current version?  Or the ideal version that walks out of a Lotions ‘n Potions waxing?

Moving south, nose options left a bit to be desired.  The perky upturned choice was just too cute.  The porcine version reminded me of a recent contestant on the-show-which-shall-not-be-named.  It was possible to see straight into her nostrils.  Very distracting, and after making the discovery, I couldn’t process her face as a whole.

Okay, time was ticking.  Skipped down to the mouth, searching for a Mona Lisa smile.  Our yoga instructor says the Louvre’s most famous resident has the most ideal mouth positioning.

Finally, after far too much thought, contemplation, and reflection, my Mii was born.  Next up: learn to connect with the baseball.  And overcome feelings of Little League inadequacy from being the only XX in a sea of XY’s.

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

• Our kids crack me up.  Repeatedly. 
• Learning opportunities are everywhere.  For example, we studied liquid dynamics as our dog’s pee ran in rivulets down the sloped sidewalk.
• Long family walks.  Copious playground jaunts.
• Defining, then seizing, our best possible lives.

My artistic skills peaked in the 3rd grade.  They have steadily declined in the ensuing years.  Back in the glory day (yes, singular), my U.S. postal stamp design was a finalist for NH students. 

This was big time, including a special ceremony at the federal building, but more importantly, an opportunity to miss school.  Such a heady experience might cause the average student to experience a sense of pride and accomplishment.  Not me.  Nope, I ordered up guilt with a side of embarrassment for the ceremony.  Sat there gazing at the other finalists, at the level of detail and investment present in their work, and thought if they only knew. 

These students had clearly spent hours, if not days, carefully designing elaborate stamp renderings.  I took approximately the last 7 1/2 minutes of our weekly art class to whip up my concoction.  Had no idea what to create for the assignment, so commenced coloring at random with bright Crayola markers.  The result was a mass of connected color splotches for which I wholly expected a reprimand from our art teacher.  Perhaps an earlier introduction to Jackson Pollock would have left me feeling a bit brighter.

Exhaled a great big sigh of relief when another finalist’s postal stamp design was selected the winner.  And thus ended my one-day artistic career.  Turns out my crafty skills weren’t hiding in the domestic arts either.  FYI – attempts to avoid sewing by cutting one’s entire apron project from an enormous piece of cloth are frowned upon in home ec.

Here’s the wild thing: despite my utter lack of artistic confidence, our daughter emerged from the womb and promptly commenced her career as a most prolific artist.  Though not looking to pursue the arts professionally (most recently she has determined to become an MD as word is they make a lot of money, and she needs the funds to support her 2-level animal shelter), she creates passionately, copiously, and unexpectedly, on a daily basis.

Not only does she create passionately, she also cares deeply.  Hence her scheme to sell works at the arts market, and donate proceeds to support Children’s Hospital at Dartmouth.  

So now, 23 years post-postage-stamp-debacle, the opportunity exists to get my art on vicariously.  To support our daughter’s quest, to contemplate saleable art, to learn about supplies and techniques.  To find inspiration, yet again, in this whirlwind we created.            

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

• Flatulence can now be convincingly blamed on the dog.
• Despite feeding 4 little monkeys microwaved s’mores as a bedtime snack (hello?  what was I thinking?), the last one’s eyes fluttered shut before the clock struck 10 pm.
• Excited puppy tails.
• The opportunity to throw off our jackets at the local playground, with no chilly repercussions.

Weekly, some wonderful, accomplished, phenomenal woman turns and utters: “I don’t know how you do it.”  The assumption is my ducks are in a row, i’s dotted and t’s crossed, crap together.  I’ve hybridized career chick, stay-at-home mom, homeschool parent, community volunteer, cheerful wife, and fulfilled woman.  And uncovered an alchemy allowing all these elements to equal a well-balanced life.  Uh, no.

Let’s pull back the curtain and glimpse the ordinary woman sitting there.  At this very moment, she’s perched on the arm of a stuffed chair.  On the arm, because the dog is engaged in joyful licking in the chair.  She should reprimand this far-better-suited-for-a-private-corner behavior.  Instead, she turns her back and types on.

She types furiously while her children watch Arthur on YouTube.  Francine just called Muffy a spoiled brat.  She should engage the monkeys in conversation about this rude and hurtful verbiage.  Yet she types on.

Her children ate enormous bowls of green beans with chopsticks for dinner.  And a fruit torte from Bread & Chocolate.  The microwave beeps its reminder the peas were ready 5 minutes ago.  And she types on.

All members of the household must be in the Subaru, belts buckled, in approximately 30 seconds for her daughter to actually make it to gymnastics on time.  Still, she types a bit more.

There are phone calls to return.  E-mails to answer.  Two unpaid parking tickets in her purse.  And she types. 

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

• Squeals of delight as our 6-year-old aims the hose in my direction while washing the Subaru.
• Birthdays.
• Adoptions.
• Busy feet, not yet reaching the floor, swinging and bouncing with glee. 

My Concord TV gratis writing implement screamed across recycled paper pages.  Suddenly, a cast of characters took shape.  Their backstories materialized.  They were named.  They began to matter. 

For years, I have ridden past Ragged Mountain’s interpretation of the requisite ski area bra tree.  Each time the Six Pack Express whisks me by this gaudy marriage of nature and satin, a story waits patiently.  The waiting is over.

To be continued…

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

• Our littlest monkey laughs in his sleep.
• Online bathing suit shopping and beach dreaming with our daughter.
• Stepped outside jacket-less yesterday and, while not quite comfortable, was not in any immediate frostbite danger.
• Glimpsed productivity on multiple occasions.
• Some people change.  And some never do.
• Saucony sneakers.

As our calendars flipped to March yesterday morning, it was time once again to toss a new habit into the mix.  Consulting my original list, discovered March + April = daily exercise habit.

I have a dilemma.  The thing is, 9 days ago we picked up a foster dog at the airport.  He stuck.  Here’s what makes this relevant.  Aside from the very first day home, Otter refuses to relieve himself in our yard. 

He insists on walking the city in search of the perfect (i.e. recently peed upon by someone else) place.  Otter will thoughtfully consider many possibilities…hydrant, tree, stone wall, telephone pole, walkway of a grumpy local resident…but only a select few will be graced with his urine stream (output proportional to his affinity for the locale; always holding a bit in reserve as a better spot could be just around the corner). 

Given Otter’s peculiar propensity for peeing only in perfect places (and he’s even pickier about acceptable poop spots)…my daily exercise habit is here to stay.  Will continue walking and running mile after mile with this dog for a long time.

So back to my dilemma.  Do I proceed through March + April under the guise of getting down with a habit already acquired?  Coast through to May, when the clean eating habit might very well kick my butt?  Bump up another habit?  Or add something entirely new?

Opting for a hybrid approach.  Little bit new, little bit old.  A daily habit of focused attention to new income generation.  In part to get a jump on the debt blasting habit debuting later this year.  But also to explore the possibilities.  To imagine what could be.  To taste freedom.

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

• Last night our 3-year-old played plumber.  I was his assistant.  Daddy was…a pipe (“Pipes don’t talk Daddy.  Stay still and no talking.”)
• According to our best girl, the dog just licked his lips in anticipation of breakfast.
• When I retrieved last night’s dinner from Tea Garden, glimpsed a poster in the door: “May everything go perfectly…”                  

Directly behind me, one grandiose feline emits purrs of a decibel normally confined to stadium concerts and delivery rooms.       

Even after twice washing, my fingers maintain a subtle glossy sheen.  The secret regimen for shiny fancy fingers?  Administer slimy ear antibiotics via syringe-with-a-sticking-plunger into the floppy ears of an exceptionally unappreciative dog.  Follow with a coating of Neosporin for ear scabs (courtesy of a dog from his past who channeled Mike Tyson).  

I reek of chlorine.  Post-swimming-with-the-monkeys shower never quite does the trick.  The chemical stench is magnified by the overflowing bag stuffed with sopping wet towels and bathing suits waiting to be rinsed and hung to dry.

Leg muscles are happily sore, tuckered out from hours of strolling our favorite museum.  For much of that time, sported the most fashionable of hip accessories: a 3-year-old monkey in a striped rocket shirt.

A belly filled with Annie’s, banana, and Kashi cereal.  A mind filled with words and possibilities and dreams.  A heart overflowing with love and gratitude and pride.  This is my life.   

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

• Traffic-free jaunt to Beantown.
• Our 6-year-old is over the moon to be thisclose to swimming on her own.
•  MOS’ rocking volunteers who delight in spending an hour chatting animal skulls with our daughter.
• We don’t own snakes.
• Our little guy’s pure, joyful, enthusiastic love of all things mechanical.

Perhaps the single most important item in that expanse of bulging black leather is my drivers license.  Sure the police like to see it when the blues glow behind me (it’s been years – knock on wood).  And it’s helpful proving my identity when scrawling a check to debit-card-eschewing locales.  And used to be critical for a good night on the town (now, when the piece of plastic is thrust at the teenage grocery clerk as my beer makes its way up the conveyor, I get a little smile, and “that’s okay ma’am, you’re all set” – ouch).

So the drivers license is an important multi-faceted tool.  But the most powerful use of a drivers license is to identify its owner as an organ donor.  It is so very easy to do.  And when it’s your dad waiting for a heart, your mom holding out hope for lungs, your brother or sister in need of a kidney and pancreas transplant to cure their diabetes…you will hope for a miracle, and pray someone was generous enough to share the gift of life.

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

• Otter.  He gets our bums out the door for exercise and fresh air multiple times daily.
• Heat.  Lights.  Internet service.
• Watching this season’s The Amazing Race cuddled in bed with the monkeys.   
• The amazing, imaginative, creative adventures our kiddos engage in day after day.
• Reaction from the monkeys when the dog tries to kiss them.  Priceless.       

Family: snoozing.  Me: wide awake.  I’d like to thank the hurricane-force-wreaking-havoc-on-our-trees-rattling-windows-freaking-out-our-already-rain-averse-foster-dog winds. 

Insomnia was co-produced simultaneously by a loss of power (accompanied by screaming CO2 alarms alerting a switch to battery mode) and loss of bladder control (on location from the couch where my husband provided refuge to our freaked out foster dog). 

Sponsors of this fine night include iPhone, with its ultimate brightness setting illuminating the stairs as I stumbled down to retrieve a headlamp.  Also vinegar, with its ability to mask the smell of dog urine with the even worse smell of…vinegar. 

Perhaps most importantly: thank you laptop battery.  For sticking with me.  For delivering even when our highspeed internet service did not.  For helping me use this insomnia for good.  For quietly supporting me as I seized this distraction-free opportunity to figure it all out. 

Yawning now as this episode of insomnia prepares to wrap.  I will soon snuggle beneath heavy blankets.  Burrow into an organic pillow.  Join my family in the snoozefest. 

A couple hours of sleep lost, but I return to bed with a clear mind, a clean couch, a good plan, and a cold nose.

Utterly Random Recent Occasions for Gratitude:

• Ability to be surprised by the weather (the silver lining of being rubbish about checking forecasts).
• Ginger chewies.
• Unexpected conversations.
• Waiting in line at the grocery store (+ the opportunity to scan the trashy mags).
• Our 3-year-old’s self-invented food conspiracies.  Tonight, he insisted someone (not him) ate his vanilla ice cream cone.  Then demanded a replacement.
• Our 6-year-old has put in a birthday request (for December 2010).  She would like a gift certificate.  To have her hair colored.  Red (like Eliza Thornberry).