I realized this week that I haven’t written a blog post for half a year. Wow! Time has flown. 2014 was a big year of change for us, particularly in the last quarter. It hasn’t been because I have had nothing to write about, but because I’ve had no time to write my blog. Now Manly Guy is working on Wall Street, we are living in New York City, and I’m writing my first Young Adult novel.

Last summer we were living in Northern California wine country and had been in the same house for nearly five years. In the spring I had encouraged Manly Guy to look at making a change with his career– I could tell that he had lost his enthusiasm for his work. I actively lobbied for the Northeast; I believe that it is good for children to experience both coasts, and I felt that there would likely be more opportunity for him if we were willing to head East. When he started poking around, he got very lucky with timing and a perfect position surfaced in NYC. He started working in Manhattan at the end of September. The kids and I followed in early November.

Now our life feels so different from the life we had six months ago. We used to be in a house with two garages and a yard– now we are in an apartment in Brooklyn. I used to drive every day– now I walk everywhere. (Last week my mileage was 42 miles. I ran 14 miles and walked 28.) We used to live in the Land of Perfect Weather– now we definitely have four seasons! The kids are different, too. We were already at the threshold, but we’ve now made the jump from young kids to older kids. T will be thirteen in less than two weeks; he now takes the subway on his own into Manhattan for his fencing classes. All three girls are less interested in toys and dolls and more into games, activities and pop culture.

Living in New York feels like living in a different country, and I’m not sure that I will ever feel like a real New Yorker. New York is terribly unforgiving, but if you are willing to work hard, there seems to be lots of opportunity (and tons of interesting people) here. I am so impressed with the immigrants who come to NYC, work hard and kick ass. People from all over the world come to The City in the hope of doing well.

Our neighborhood is great, with very much a village feel. T described it well when he said, “Like Disneyland, but edgier.” The brownstones are generally 2-3 stories (a much more human scale than Manhattan neighborhoods), with the two main retail streets running parallel a block apart, and it is very walkable. It has a colorful history, as well. At the beginning of the twentieth century, it was very much an Irish working class neighborhood. The park monument to the local boys who lost their lives in the Great War is filled with Irish names. Then the Italians came, and it was a big mafia spot for decades. The church where Al Capone got married is two blocks from our building. There is still one men’s social club on the main strip, but I’ve been told that there used to be one on every block. Now that Brooklyn has become trendy, there are many transplanted Manhattanites and Europeans living here, and the long-time locals bemoan the fact (never mind that their property values have gone through the roof).

Little by little, NYC has altered us all, if only a bit. T knows the subway system better than I do. I noticed yesterday that S said “Awesome!” like a kid from Brooklyn. V is even less shy than she was in CA (if that is even possible). Of the girls, J misses CA the most, but she has matured so much since we arrived five months ago. They are all quickly becoming City Kids. Manly Guy fit in immediately upon arrival (in CA people often asked him if he was from NY; he was born here but left as a baby). Even I have changed, the third generation native California Girl. Five days ago I was crossing the street when a driver blew through the light a few feet from me. Before I knew it, my hands flew in the air and I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Yo! Idiot!” I was shocked to hear it come out of my mouth. I heard a little kid a few paces behind me repeat what I said, which made me chuckle.

I’m grateful to be on this big adventure. The next few years should be interesting!

On Sunday, our dog Spike bolted down the street, around the corner, up the highway offramp and across four lanes of traffic where he met his death before he got to the other side. (He had never taken off like this before; very unusual behavior for him.) This morning I felt compelled to write about our loss:

I was the last holdout in the family against having a dog. My stance was that I had four kids and a husband—already too much to do and I wasn’t willing to take on any more work. Manly Guy stood with me until December 2012, when he sent me a video of children getting dogs for Christmas. “Really?! One puppy video and you go to their (the kids’) side on this?” I was annoyed, as I suspected that the care and feeding of any family pet would fall squarely on my shoulders.

I had never bonded with a dog. Sure, we had pets when I was growing up, but they were never “mine”. My experience was that dogs barked, they made messes, they were a lot of work, they never listened. I was definitely not a Dog Person. In fact, I really wasn’t a Pet Person. While I enjoy cats, I never made room in my life to have one of my own.

Spike changed all that.

Our nanny P called Manly Guy one evening in late November 2013, asking him to meet her at her car. Inside the car, her friend T held an adorable puppy. P had taken on a project, finding homes for ten puppies living with a woman and her grown disabled son. This woman had six stray dogs and before long she had two litters of puppies. She was overwhelmed. P found donors to pay to have the woman’s stray dogs spayed and found homes for all of the puppies. One of those puppies was Spike.

I knew I was in a losing battle on the puppy front. I made a calculation that if I took one of these puppies, I’d have P’s buy-in and support. After she agreed to care for the puppy when we traveled at Christmas and agreed to help us find someone to care for Spike when we traveled the following summer, I told Manly Guy that we could get a puppy.

During the first week in December, Manly Guy went to pick out a puppy. P had showed him one that she thought we might like, but Manly Guy found himself drawn to another. He agreed to pick him up on Saturday, December 7, 2013. While I took the kids to San Francisco for a symphony concert, Manly Guy picked up the puppy, took him to the vet, got his shots, gave him a bath and brought him into our home. Manly Guy put him in a big box right before we arrived and set it in the middle of the living room.

S was the one who had pestered us the most as far as wanting a dog, so she was the one who got to open the box. She was so shocked when she opened the box—I had done such a good job convincing the kids that they were never getting a dog—that she was stunned and hardly said anything. It took a few minutes for the kids to realize that this dog was ours.

Manly Guy decided on the name Spike. The kids showered him with love immediately. Within a few days he was housebroken and he was surprisingly easy to manage. He was quickly part of our daily routine. Spike was the first thing that the kids wanted to see in the morning and the last thing they wanted to see at night.

Spike became Manly Guy’s constant companion. It was a beautiful relationship to witness. Spike loved to lie at Manly Guy’s side, and we accumulated six beds in two houses so that he could be comfortable wherever he wanted to be. First thing in the morning, I would carry Spike downstairs in his bed so that Manly Guy could get a little extra sleep. Sometimes I would take him outside to do his business, but more often one of the kids would go outside with him. The agreement was that Mommy was not responsible for the dog, but Daddy and the kids had to take care of Spike. Generally that agreement was upheld, and the only care that I gave to Spike was because I chose to jump in.

Spike let us love him in the way that each of us wanted to. S wanted to play-fight with him, so they learned to do tug-of-war with a rope toy together. J wanted to calmly hold him, and he loved her for it. T played with him, held him, would lie on the floor next to him, and he always responded with love. V wanted to lie on top of him (I had to remind her regularly not to squish him) and kiss his head. He was so patient and loving with each of them.

Spike gave me the space to learn to love him. I initially wasn’t that interested in having much of a relationship with him, but he wormed his way into my heart. Eventually, he spent part of the day with me in the kitchen, his bed in a corner. He loved being with us, dozing and then looking up with his beautiful eyes and worried expression. I would often stop what I was doing (cooking or cleaning), bend down and rub his ears. He would always just be grateful for the attention. He didn’t beg for it, but he was always appreciative of the love that we gave him.

Spike let me love him the way I would love a cat. He would curl up on my lap while I was at the computer, either on one of his beds (which he preferred) or just on my legs. Sometimes I picked him up and had him sit straight on my lap and gave him a back scratch with my nails and he seemed to really enjoy it. He never licked my face (he knew I didn’t like that), but he would give me licks from a distance.

There are so many little things that I will miss about Spike:

The sound of his dog tags jingling together, a quiet reminder of his presence.

The little throaty sound that he made as I carried him downstairs in his bed first thing in the morning.

The very occasional middle-of-the-night wakeup (by licking my hand), asking me to put his blanket over him as he hopped back into his bed.

Rubbing his soft ears. I loved his ears.

Looking into his beautiful eyes. He was so patient with me taking photos of that lovely face of his.

The way he curled up tightly, quietly asking to stay in bed, not wanting to go outside yet.

The way he popped up his head when I walked into the guest house, as if to say, “What have you brought for Daddy and me?”

His quiet acknowledgement that I had entered the room: a wagging tail and a look.

His calm demeanor. He was never nervous. He only barked when someone approached the door, but otherwise he was so quiet and calm.

His interactions with Manly Guy were wonderful to watch. Keeping Manly Guy company as he worked in the guest house, nipping at his shoelaces to get Manly Guy to play with him, following him around in the yard. Spike loved all of us, but Manly Guy was his favorite. There is no doubt that he was Manly Guy’s Dog.

His little prancing steps when he was playful.

The delicate way he took a bone or treat from my hand.

The way he jumped up on his hind legs.

The way he wiggled all over when we returned to the house, even if we had been gone only a few minutes. He was always so happy to see us.

RIP, Spike. I never knew that I could love a dog so much.

Manly Guy left Friday morning at 5 AM for 2.5 days to watch some of his CrossFit buddies compete in the CrossFit Regionals in San Jose over the weekend.  I encouraged him to go, and was glad that he was able to watch and support his friends.  As an added bonus, he crashed at his best friend’s house in the South Bay, so he got some valuable Bromance time, too.

Of course, this meant that I was on kid duty by myself for nearly three days.  And while it has gotten easier than it used to be (when I had multiple toddlers in the house), it is still challenging.  The kids are great, they didn’t act up, it wasn’t that it was that BAD; it is just the relentlessness of caring for children that can make it hard.  By the time Manly Guy got home on Sunday afternoon, I was *really* needing a break.  It gets to the point that every request/question/interruption while doing a task (like cleaning the kitchen) gets to be Too Much.  While I have yet to snap at my kids with “Can you please just leave me the f*&k alone?”, I have certainly thought it in my head.

When I think of the many mothers who deal with situations not nearly as wonderful as mine, it is a chilling thought.  I have a wonderful, supportive husband and four great kids.  While we are not rich, we are comfortable, and I don’t have to worry if we will have enough to eat or a roof over our head.  Everyone is healthy and generally happy.  We our extremely blessed and I try to remind myself often to be grateful.  It is amazing to me that even under really wonderful circumstances, child rearing can feel very hard, particularly when I know that it could be so much harder.

Of course we hear in the news every so often about mothers who totally lose it, kill their kids, and often try to kill themselves.  In mid-May there was the case of Carol Coronado in Southern California who stabbed her three daughters to death and then slashed her wrists.  Such a horrible story!  The daughters were 2 1/2 years old, 16 months old and 2 months old.  The husband was across the street working on the car.  Now this mother is facing jail for life and possibly the death penalty. The whole situation seems such a senseless loss of life, a terrible end for everyone involved, including the husband, who will be emotionally scarred for life.

The other recent news story that made me pause was the accidental heroin overdose of Peaches Geldof in April.  She was twenty-five, mother of two young sons (2 years old and 11 months old), married to Thomas Cohen, the lead singer of a band called S.C.U.M.  On the surface she had it all– she was the daughter of a rock star living the privileged life of a model, married to a rock star.  Looking over her biography, it seems that she was working in TV and fashion up until 2011, when she got engaged to Thomas Cohen.  In April 2012 she gave birth to their first son, then she and Thomas married in September 2012, and she had their second son in April 2013.

What struck me about both of these tragedies was my lack of surprise.  As soon as I heard the ages of the children in both cases, I could see why it could happen.  When V turned five last year, I did a little dance to celebrate no longer having a baby or toddler in the house.  To some, this may sound really calloused, but after ten years of baby and toddler years (with the four kids), it was a relief to *not* be pregnant/breastfeeding/changing diapers/trying to negotiate with a toddler.  Motherhood is more demanding than I could have ever imagined, and it was particularly so when the kids were under age five.   While I still have challenging days, I remind myself that it is a lot easier than it used to be.  When I think back to those early days, especially in the first six months, I can see how some mothers can literally go crazy.

It is easy to imagine a woman with three children under three (including a new infant) wondering how her life became so miserable and feeling terribly desperate.  It is not a stretch to envision a young, beautiful celebrity with two little boys wanting to escape the drudgery that motherhood can be.  I don’t know if there is a fix for this.  Raising kids is a hard job and I’m not sure that society really *can* make it easier, or that it would be appropriate to do so.  But it would be nice if the hard work was at least acknowledged by more people.  Many of us don’t realize (I certainly didn’t before I had children) that motherhood is one of the toughest jobs ever, even when the parameters are close to perfect.

Okay, lady– after you talked to me like a child and made me pinky-swear that I wouldn’t be late dropping off our son tomorrow morning, I was absolutely seething in the car.  I hate you.

In our little “talk” at pick-up today, you admitted that you are not a parent.    Even if you hadn’t told me, it would have been very evident.  I am in fact wondering why you are teaching a spring break camp for kids when you clearly don’t “get” parents and their needs.  Perhaps you don’t realize that it is the parents who are the real customers, not the kids?   We are the ones who foot the bill for activities, and fit them into our busy schedules.   And while I would not have minded you jokingly reminding me that the class starts at 10 AM, talking down to me (in small words, always my favorite)  and then asking me to pinky-swear was beyond the pale.

You have no idea that this month has been a crazy one for us.  You don’t know that I had a kid home sick yesterday, and another one who had two days of camp canceled this week because there weren’t enough kids registered for it.  That I spent all day Monday cooking (starting before 6 AM) for a St. Patty’s Day celebration.  That we had friends arrive that night who stayed with us and I made a big dinner for them last night.  That I’m still recovering from hosting a French intern for two weeks; having a stranger in your home for that long (even when they are nice and polite) can be tough, particularly when communication is challenging (she spoke limited English and I speak almost no French).

I try to always respect a service provider’s time.  I make sure that I pick up our kids promptly, as I know it is unfair to expect someone to stay late.   But this week the kids are on vacation, and we’ve had visitors, and I cannot make it a priority to get my kids at the exact start time of camp.   If one of the kids arrives 10-15 minutes late to a holiday activity, I figure it is no big deal.  I have three different drop-off times and three different pick-up times this week, and if we spend a few extra minutes at breakfast, I don’t feel like I need to apologize for it.  We have so many “real” deadlines and time commitments that I need to keep that I am not willing to add your drop-off time to that list.

I’m looking forward to that feedback form that is always distributed at the end of the class.  I think you need to hear a parent’s view on start times and how you need to be more flexible.  And Manly Guy offered gleefully to drop T off tomorrow; he can’t wait to make a snarky remark about a pinky-swear.