(a)

Life is about making choices.

(a) Take Harry with me to the airport to greet Grandma Irene or (b) Leave him home alone.

I’ve written before about my sweet, little Harry (a.k.a. my Boston “terrorist”) who always makes trouble.  Despite all of his debacles etched in my memory, there’s one place where he’s always been an outstanding canine citizen, and that place is the airport. Surprisingly, Harry is a first class travel companion.  I’d fly with him over my kids in a heartbeat!  Sadly, the kids (a.k.a.my little human “terrorists”) have made flying as unappealing as a colonoscopy.

(For the record, Dylan and Riley aren’t really terrorists.  I was just trying to be funny and I hope I don’t get in trouble by homeland security folks who monitor blogs for using the word terrorist in a passage that also includes “flying,” “travel” and “airport.”  I also hope I’m not flagged for extra screening – gulp – the next time I’m fortunate enough to have a place to go that requires air travel.)

Besides a quick walk every day on some days on February 29^th every four years, Harry and I don’t spend as much quality time together as we did before babies hijacked our lives (maybe not the best word choice). On Wednesday, I had to pick up my mom at the airport and we decided beforehand that I would park and come inside rather than get her curbside.  I decided to take Harry with me because (1) he loves Grandma Irene, (2) he loves airports and (3) it’s okay to bring dogs to the airport [um, hold that thought].

I think I heard “Staying Alive” playing in the background as Harry and I strutted from the short term parking garage to baggage claim.   We were so cool.  I had no small children pulling at my shirt, whining for cheese crackers, or telling me they had to poop.  Instead, I had a trophy dog…a perfect black and white canine specimen…a Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show contender (except for his crooked tail and inability to be within 50 feet of other dogs without going bezerk) by my side!

Harry had throngs of admirers who commented on his perfectly smooshed Boston terrier face and scratched him behind his ears.   Passengers around the baggage carousel looked at us admiringly as if I held a newborn baby in my arms.  One guy told me a story about how his mother raised Boston terriers many years ago.  Even a police officer on a motorcycle out front stopped what he was doing to give Harry some love.

And then our fun was interrupted by a grumpy airport worker who told me dogs had to be in a kennel or held [cut “Staying Alive” and insert scratching record sound].  Oh.  What I did next was what any loving Mama would do.  I held Harry proudly in my arms (like a newborn baby) while we waited for my mom’s luggage, and amazingly, everyone around the baggage carousel thought we were even cooler than before [cue the music again].  I chose (a), and our trip to theairport was awesome.

(a) Make Dylan eat the macaroni & cheese he ordered at the restaurant or get nothing else before bed or (b) Let him refuse the macaroni & cheese (that he ordered) and give him what he wants – yogurt, apple sauce and a cheese stick – which is pretty much the only thing he eats these days.

Sigh.  I’m as sick of this as you are.  In recent weeks, Dylan’s already limited food repertoire has become even smaller.  I could blame it on progress he’s made in other areas (the “lose something to gain something” theory) or I could try to think of some specific event that has caused him to suddenly choke and gag every time any kind of macaroni & cheese – his until-recently favorite food – enters his mouth, or I could pour myself another glass of wine.

I’ll say this.  My mom is visiting this week and she can attest that “picky eater” doesn’t even come close to describing Dylan’s disordered eating.  After dinner the other night, my mom said, “Dylan should be on the ‘Anderson Cooper’ show.”  In the end, I chose (a).  He ended up going to sleep with no dinner, and when he woke up the next morning, he asked for a waffle, a breakfast bar and a cheese stick.

(a) Buy more diapers or (b) Potty train Riley.

I still have about ten diapers left from the last 23-pack I wrote about earlier this week.  I don’t have to make a decision until Ireach the last one, but still, I think I’ve made up my mind. Riley has no interest yet in wearing big boy underwear and peeing and pooping on the potty.  If I force him to do it now, he’ll eventually fall in line, but at what cost?  He’ll be miserable and slow to succeed, he’ll probably say some un-kind things to me (that he’ll regret later) and I’ll surely develop a serious drinking problem.  If I wait a few more months, it might be smoother sailing for everyone involved.  So, Riley wins.  He can stay in his “stinky poopy pants” (literally!) until further notice.  I won’t stop encouraging him, but for now, I choose (a).