Attacked by Dogs

I am too wound up to sleep and I'm wasting hours of darkness replaying the day in my head.  I go over the events in my typical way, overthinking, but unable to stop myself. What should have gone differently? How do we prevent it from happening again?

My three children and two dogs were attacked by a pair of dogs. My oldest daughter sustained most of the damage with her hands bitten when she tried to get the most aggressive dog off of our collie. The collie has bite injuries too, but her massive, rough coat, just recently starting its spring blow, protected her from the worst. Both my sweet girl and her dog will be sore, and they have bites and bruises that will need to heal.  Its the mental parts for both of them that I worry about.

I worry about the two who were hurt, but I also worry about the three that weren't. My princess girl already harbors so much anxiety, born out of could-be-worse incidents and rehab'd dogs from sketchy backgrounds. Its a lot of work and tears to bring a dog out of a bad situation and turn it into something to be proud of. Will this ramp up her stress and anxiety levels to where she won't be able to enjoy her hard work? What about my boy, who himself has suffered several dog bites? Finally, can we deal with it if the big dog suffers a setback in his training and mental well-being? Large, neurotic dogs aren't fun, and I don't have the money to devote to more professional training.

The kids walk the dogs daily--its part of being responsible pet owners. Its getting increasingly harder to be a good pet owner though. In the past year and a half our dogs have been attacked twice by dogs that have broken through fences, four times by small dogs in various settings, and now today's two dogs which ran across a baseball field, large parking lot and street in order to attack my family. There is something wrong with this picture.

My kids and dogs average a friendly following dog every 6 weeks, and we often call owners who act like its our fault their dogs are roaming at large. I've had owners tell me they are too busy and hang up the phone when I've called to let them know their dog was loose. We've only had one dog without a collar that we had to send to the pound.

I worry about the dog that was impounded for biting my girl. If only, if only, if only...

I hate the man who didn't care his dog had injured my child, refused to tell his name, and told me that his dog wasn't at fault. He's ruined the lives of his pets because I cannot stand idly by when he turned his aggressive dog loose near a playground. That dog will probably die because of this. And that was preventable simply by keeping the dog on the leash that the man carried in his hand.

I came back

"You came back," my new coworker said to me on the second day. I laughed and asked if I had messed up enough that I shouldn't have. I wait with the fear punitive and authoritarian bosses have instilled in me since I was 16 at my first fast food job. So far, no one has embarrassed me in front of my coworkers, and no one has told me that I'm making irreparable mistakes. This worries me, what if they aren't telling me that I'm wrong because I'm hopelessly wrong?

I asked, at the end of my first week, if there was anything I should know, and if I was doing OK. I was told everything was great as long as I didn't hide f-bombs in the copy. I should be relieved by this, but I worry. In a world where I know that this part-time job means that we have a small but steady income, I don't want to mess up. The idea of being sent back to poor school, or being forced into the opportunity to work without pay, lurks in the corner of my mind. I can see myself enjoying this job, becoming attached to it, and letting it become part of my identity, and that worries me too. If I become this attached, what would happen if I lost it?

I don't anticipate losing my new job, but we've lost so much in the past couple of years that its not outside the realm of possibility. The instructor at poor school said the fear and worry never completely leave your mind. You may never be comfortable again, even if you become financially secure. I wonder if I will always feel like I'm on the verge of utter destruction for our family with one misstep.

On the first Monday of my second week, my coworker walked past my desk,"you came back," he said with a smile. I asked if that was good, and he said most people would have quit by this point if they were going to quit. I don't say what is on my mind.

__ Days without Incident

Its been 8 days since I received the call that they wanted to hire me.

Its been 7 days since I hated my life.

Its been 6 days since I leaked frustration, anger and fear from my eyes.

Its been 5 days since I worried about how my crutches and problems would be received.

Its been 4 days since I started my new job.


I didn't realize just exactly how destroyed I am by this life of poverty and struggling. It's slightly horrifying that I can see the lack of confidence in my work and in how I interact with my new coworkers. Once, I would have approached this position quite boldly and with no question of my own abilities--now, I'm not as confident.

I am grateful. I work just enough hours to avoid the obligations of free work and poor school. I no longer have to deal with a job coach that treated me like my damaged knees were directly connected to my ability to reason.

Today, I will continue to dig myself out of this grave I've fallen into. I will hide the fear that lives in my chest and I will try to overcome the doubts which continuously niggle at the back of my mind. As I learn my job and responsibilities I might just find myself again--wouldn't that be nice?

Fear and Hope

Some days, I'm really normal. Strangely enough, today started that way. Some days, I start out with an almost normal gait, and I walk short distances just like any other person. Today, I started out that way.  Some days, I feel perhaps we'll be OK. Today, I felt that way. Some days, the fortune cookie is spot on and I can expect a big change for the better in my future.

Today started on Friday though. I saw the ad posted on a job website during my lunch break at free work. The job coach called me about a job and asked me to go into her office. I declined and told her to email the details to me. She hates that, since she thinks I'm not taking her seriously, which frankly, I'm not. Since I'm being frank, I didn't want her even in the same time zone when I prepared that application to go out. It was a job I wanted. The kind of job that if I were still living on our former, comfortable, middle-class income, I would still want it so dearly I could cry. The kind of job that makes my heart skip a beat. I wanted it.

I waited. Fear and hope mingled together and I wanted to jump up and down, or crawl into a den and hide. I mentioned it to my husband, but even then I downplayed my feelings. Saturday, I wrote the cover letter and checked the resume. I waited. Finally, I submitted the application and said a little prayer. It would be waiting for Monday morning, if it made it through an application tracking system. Please let me win this round of "buzzword bingo." Then, the emails started. Not just the automatic replies, but a real person. We set up a phone interview.

I adore phone interviews. They are a chance to avoid face-to-face, which is nice when you've been told that you just don't have the face for a job. Or when the interview is more about your inabilities that have very little to do with your abilities.You learn to appreciate being judged on the words that fall out of your mouth.

An invitation to meet in person. A short test on style. A day of normalcy. An interview that felt less judgmental and more conversational. Always the hope and fear growing and mingling, until I admit to my husband that I want this. The high of feeling OK still coursing through me, I celebrate with a bit of hope, maybe even a tiny nod toward joy. And then the phone call--the call that terrifies and excites, and unleashes so many questions, worries and hopes. 

By the end of the day I'm back to my trusty crutches, worn down by the agony in my knee. But for a day--for such an important day--I didn't lose to the disability. I beat it.

Do Hard Things

I don't know when it became fashionable in the inspirational crowd.  I remember seeing a book title, and the anthem being picked up by mom-blogs, and Christian blogs, and homeschoolers, and later being repeated here and there.  Over two years ago, I picked it up myself as a challenge to try to rectify my misspent twenties: Do hard things.

I thought taking college Math classes and packaging my varied credits into an associate's degree would be hard things to do--so I did them.  I thought rehabilitating my knees, riddled with arthritis and plagued by patella-femoral pain syndrome, with grueling physical therapy followed by a surgery and more physical therapy would be hard things to do--so I did them.  I thought that taking the steps to work towards a bachelor's degree by tackling more college classes would be hard things to do--so I did them.

Those are hard things done by choice.  There is a certain, smug, assurance when you speak of these kinds of hard things no matter if you succeeded or failed.  You did hard things.  You chose to take on a challenge head first and no matter the outcome, the lessons were in the journey.  You can celebrate that journey, and know that you can do more hard things, or do better at the hard things that stumped you on the first attempt. "Do hard things" is a joyful, inspirational message meant to get you out of your comfort zone.

No one chooses to do the actual hard things.  It is insanity to seek them out.  I essentially failed a difficult Math class, but I did the hard thing of trying to pass it.  I did not pass, as my life was turned upside down during that spring with the passing of my father-in-law.  In dealing with this sudden loss of a beloved father, we did more than hard things.  To this day, we deal with that loss and grief in often less than inspirational ways.  Death is not the hard things inspirational speakers were talking about.

This poverty, this constant struggle to get by--this struggle to have shelter, clean clothing, food, transportation, and find employment, are not the "hard things" of the anthem.  This pain that never ends and the circle of complications that go with it, are not the "hard things" of the anthem.  Trying to keep your children innocent and your marriage somewhat functional while your world is completely failing, does not count as "hard things."  These fall beyond "hard things."  If you have a choice, don't do these things, they are all but impossible.

Failing a Math class is disappointing.  Failing at life is devastating.  Overcoming the disappointment of a failed Math class takes a while, until you can regroup and try again.  Failing at holding your life and family together isn't one of those things you get a second chance at.  So do hard things, but realize the world is so much harder than you ever imagined.