Dog Farts

I have wanted a dog my entire 32 (nearly 33!) years on this planet. For a million reasons I was never able to get one. I am quite the dog person. I finally decided (and told my husband very explicitly) that my terms were this: I will be getting a dog when we own our own home and all of my children are out of diapers.

So, while living with my mother (in her basement, (because: toxic mold) where we were so very grateful {and super cramped}) the babiest of the Griders was begging (and begging and begging and beggingto “use the potty” and “wear unnie-pants” (yes, that phrase is as cute as you can possibly imagine) like her big sister. Repetedly. Add this to the fact that the (nearly) five year old cloth diapers started to leak on a regular basis…so I decided that since I was dealing with wet pants anyway that I might as well try (for the third time since Kathryn was 18 months of age) to potty train her. She magically got potty trained in about 4 days at 22 months of age! I should throw a celebratory party. Just a few weeks later than this milestone we settled on our very first home.

I then decided that the house needed to be unpacked and the few non negotiable things that needed to be taken care of in the new home needed to be cared for first and then, finally, finally, fucking finally, I could adopt a dog. (We had an external door that was broken, and an HVAC system that decided to crap the FUCK out before the ink was dry on our first-time-home-buyer settlement papers, a broken disposal/dishwasher and a few other ‘minor’ but necessary things). We moved in July 22nd (after a crazy, no-holds-barred weekend of “dear god we must wash every wall, scrub every counter top, scourge every toilet, suds every baseboard, have every. single. carpet. professionally cleaned, every air duct professionally blown out, and at the end of it all paint. every. single. wall. in. the. entire. house {while completing all of this in under 48 hours})”. I would like to point out that I fucking rule, goddamnit, and I got this crazy list of this shit done WITH TWO SMALL CHILDREN UNDER THE AGE OF FIVE following me most of the time (but I must give a shout out to the Duffy/Orem/Haas/Chicca clan for taking the Grider Girls for 12+ of these daytime hours, and also praise the Hall/Lederer/Eason/Rohrbaugh/Grider group of people who helped with the actual chores — I am so grateful for the people that helped me complete this motherfucking insanity).

So I finished all of the aforementioned craziness. And then I needed the big things in my “first time homeowner list” completed before I added more (AKA: a 66 pound dog) to my life. Then I went to the local “pound”. They have fantastic guidelines – which ensure that animals that are adopted from their facilities end up living in homes where they will stay and not be kicked to the curb over a small slight. I respect and understand that as an animal health care professional. Particularly as a previous emergency/general practice veterinary technician I completely understand the need for people who ‘get’ the importance and responsibilities that are involved with being a pet owner.

But, as a person who really, really wanted a dog I was impatient and frustrated at the process! (Because I’m still the 5 year old that wants a puppy, okay??).

We looked at a total of seven dogs.

Yes, you read that correctly.


My entire family came to see three of them. (They have this guideline that your entire family needs to be present and meet the new family member. Really, I do agree with this. It just gets hard on the fifth or sixth time, that’s all…..)

It was such a (fucking annoying goodamned long) process.


(Yes, shut the fuck up. I know I sound like a goddamned six year old. I don’t care. I felt like a six year old who was STILL BEING denied something that she was really, really, really desiring. And deserved. And could HANDLE. And…and….and….and………where’s my puppy….?)

And we finally got approved to keep a gorgeous, chill, sweet, perfect dog. She was just over one year of age, spayed, vaccinated, microchipped and her adoption fee was PREpaid! (I did not know this until we’d already decided to bring her home – I swear!)

She came home mid-August. We renamed her Juno. (Her previous name was Sasha – uck. Who names a doggy Sasha?!!) And she had such a rough life previously. She’d been a stray that had been adopted from the same pound with a new family with kids – for a whole week. Clearly a week is long enough to determine that this dog is awful and I must return her because she is awful and just a terrible per.


I adore her.

I love her.

I want to be the best (doggy/step/biological) mother ever.

And I am getting there. I have so many skills and so much patience and a ton of experience.

We’ve worked so long with her and her behavioral problems (she’s got severe separation anxiety – because of course I would adopt a dog that will bloody her nose if I leave her in her crate for more than 30 minutes….) and after a long period of patience and love, she is acclimating to our family nicely.

I adore this dog. She snuggles with me in bed.

When I cry over the fact that my mental health is deteriorating (fodder for another post) she licks my tears.

She curls up at my feet when I’m watching the Gilmore Girls (YES I know I’m over a decade behind. Hush).

And she farts.

I feel like “farts” is just so completely inadequate to depict the situation of which I am describing.

My husband and I choke in the miasma that emanates from the rear end of my adorable pup. Almost daily. Some times half a dozen times daily.

It’s beyond awful.

No, really.

I’m not exaggerating.

Seriously. One night a few weeks ago I woke up in the middle of the night – around 3am or so (this awful shit always happens sometime between 1:30 and 4am).

My master bedroom smelled like shit. Literally like shit. I woke up with the taste of poop in my mouth.

I then spent a good 20 – 30 minutes searching the upper level of my house for shit. I was wondering if my baby girl had shat her diaper, or if my first born had decided it would be a good idea to shit in our master bathroom and not flush (this is not an uncommon occurrence in my home, frankly). I searched the crate at the foot of my bed – maybe my new pup decided to cement how very much she hates that metal contraption…?

No poop. I could find no feces anywhere.

I was unable to locate the source of the shit smell that had been so incredibly fetid and rancid that it awoke me from a deep, dead sleep. (If you don’t know me personally then you do not understand how significant this is. I never, ever awake from sleep unless there’s a screaming child that my husband has not already attended to. Or, occasionally, I might be awoken because I need to vomit into (and by ‘into’ I mean somewhere around or leading to the room in which the toilet is housed).

So, now that we’ve clarified the (very, very, very) few (and absolutely far between) things that would wake me from a deep sleep: I then went back to sleep.  (DUDE! It was like 2:30am!) Once I was aware that my daughters were not sleeping in or rolling around on shit and that I would not awake in a slimy mud puddle of poop early in the morning I decided to go (the fuck) back to (my favorite thing ever ever ever EVER ever ever EVER EVER) sleep.

The next morning I said to my hubby: “DUDE. I woke up sometime during the night to what I swear was poop in our room. It honestly smelled like there was poop in our bed!”

He informed me: “Yes. There was poop smell in our room. Our dog was farting,”

Farts? You mean the nasty, poop-in-my-mouth, wake me up from a dead sleep and search my house, smell was a 66 pound animal breaking wind?

Yes, he tells me. Repeatedly.

I think he’s full of shit.

But I feel as though I must tell those of you who are reading my blog that during the 23ish minutes I’ve been typing up this I’ve been resisting the urge to vomit. Why, you ask?

Because of dog farts.

My beautiful, soft coated, sweet, kind, chill pup – she farts like she’s trying to kill someone who is attempting to drown her most recent litter of puppies. With a method of gas that required a mask…..

doggie farts.


I wish I had “Parenting, Illustrated by Crappy Pictures” sitting next to me to demonstrate what it’s like to sit on my couch typing on my laptop in the general vicinity of my television….living in a cloud of death. There should be photos in the PigPen cloud that surrounds me. Complete with flies. Flies that are dying mid-air because of the stench.

Oh, my. I swear that I love this pup. Really, I do.

But why the fuck did I choose a dog (who I swear I love, after thirty two years of waiting for a dog) who farts like a motherfucker – she farts almost as though she wants to kill me.

I’m choking just writing this.

But she’s supremely beautiful and loving.

And smelly.

So. Fucking. Smelly.

Poop-smell-in-your-mouth-that-causes-you-to-wake-up-from-a-dead-sleep smelly.

However, seeing her completely covered in stickers (that my 2 year old placed on her only moments after my 5 year old finished attempting to ride her – I stopped her, calm down) just reminds me why I put up with the fucking god awful dog farts.


Dog farts.

I’m going to live with the miasma of dog farts for the rest of my life, aren’t I?

It’s a good thing I drink a lot of wine…….

The wine almost helps to make me forget the smell. Almost.


This, too, shall pass…



See that? It’s a pebble. Relatively innocuous, one wouldn’t think that something so small and insignificant could cause so much smelly annoyance.


Guess what my husband and I have spent the last 24 hours doing? If you said lounging on the beach, fruity umbrella, hand-in-hand, basking in both the beautiful sunset and our love for one another, you’d be close.

Except not at all.

If you said putting on rubber gloves and alternately squishy & sifting through every particle of every bowel movement that has passed through my daughter’s adorable butt cheeks in search of the above pictured rock, you’d be closer.

And, of course, they are the smelliest, smelliest bowel movements she’s had in months. There I stood, hunched over the toilet bowl squeezing turds into the toilet. It’s become a science, and I’m very concerned I might miss a spot. Seriously? Are you kidding me? This is what my life has been reduced to?

I should have known this was coming when I discovered a sticker in my daughter’s poop at  7 months of age. Not in her poop as though someone had stuck it in her diaper, but in her poop like she ate it, unsuccessfully attempted to digest it, and then pooped it out. This child is more obsessed with actually eating foreign objects than anyone other baby  I’ve ever met.

I’ve washed my hands 300 times today and still don’t feel clean. And the feces smelled so bad you could actually taste it, rather than just smell it.

*sigh* I’m wrapping her in bubble wrap and we’re never leaving the house again.


So now for the big question: do I put the rock in her baby book?


No Boob Required

My itty bitty baby girl, who just turned 15 months is hilarious. And weird.

Today, I was putting her down for a nap and in my haste (I had three other children under four I was simultaneously trying to toilet, feed, and get down for naps as well) I accidentally put her to bed with her shoes on. Cute little strappy numbers that have velcro flowers on them. White. (commence retching now. I did not buy them. 95% of my children’s clothes are hand me downs, the other 5% are from grandparents – judge away!)

After I had gotten the rest of the house silenced (which was no small feat) I hear an odd noise that I cannot place. Thinking the cat had was wreaking havoc somewhere else in the house like the kale fiasco ( https://parentingseatpants.wordpress.com/2013/07/17/kale-is-the-new-crack/ ) I wanted to put the smack down on this as soon as humanly possible. After 10 wasted minutes of searching in all the places, silently, like a ninja (you can’t ruin naps in my house or you get punished!! Mommy included!) I realized it was emanating from the baby monitor. I go up to check on the baby, who I thought was sleeping. I open the door and she looks up at me from her crib, grins, and riiiiiiiips the shoes (that I had left on her feet) open and then closes them. Then giggles. (The giggling was entirely for my reaction. She had not been giggling prior to my opening the door).


Look at Mama.



I enjoyed the show for about two minutes and then said, “Okay, baby girl. Clearly your shoes are keeping you from sleeping. Let’s rectify that.” So I remove the shoes and set them (silly me) on her dresser. In plain sight.

Then I leave. Mama needs a nap, too, remember?

Wailing begins. Usually she fusses for about 30 seconds when I leave the room but then settles down for her nap. Yup, I’m a horrible person who allows her child’s voice/tears to rise above 6.7 decibels when she’s *gasp* alone in her room for more than 5 seconds. Don’t tell anyone, but sometimes I even let her cry for five MINUTES. Oh, the horror. Call CPS now.

So after waiting about three minutes her wailing becomes high pitched and shrill. (This is a sign that no amount of time waiting will induce sleep or a calm state.) As I walk towards her bedroom door to pull out the magic sleepy device (also known as “THE BOOB”) she starts talking between her cries.

“MAMA!” wails “Shoe. My shoe.” wails “Pweeeeease?” wails “MY SHOE PWEEEEASE?! PWEASE!”

Hearing my baby daughter cry/yell the word please has me dissolving into laughter outside my door.

So I did what any parent would do. I opened the door, picked up the shoes, and put them back on my child.

She immediately replaced her pacifier, picked up her lovey, laid down and closed her eyes.


No boob required.


Twinkle, twinkle little….

Yes. Another penis post.

My three year old has decided that it’s fun to make up words to songs that she knows to be silly. It’s cute. Sometimes I think it’s unintentional, but no less hilarious. For example:

Row, row, row your boat

Gently down the stream

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily

Life’s your butter dream

So this evening she decides to start singing “Twinkle, Twinkle little star”. Which apparently, goes something like this:

Twinkle twinkle

Twinkle twinkle

Twinkle twinkle little penis


So she’s singing this song and surreptitiously goes into the kitchen where my husband is cooking dinner after working all day (yup, he’s amazing, be jealous) singling “Twinkle, twinkle little penis” over and over again. I’m playing on the floor with the baby in another room and can’t see the interaction.

Suddenly my husband announces: “No, you may NOT touch my penis.”


Apparently she needed visual aids?