a sample email... was it worth it?

I have an old dog, and his latest, sort of delirious + gritty mission, is to make his way onto a green shaggy carpet in the kid's playroom.  Seems harmless enough, right?  Let the old man lay wherever he wants, right?  Said once, a 9th grade babysitter.  

{Not unless your'e also a maid with a vacuum, honey buns.}  Which, based on my kitchen in the wake of making muffins with my kids, you are decidedly not.

So.  I've made it my personal, and daily mission, with delirium + grit tantamount to his, to keep our shedding machine of a dog, out of that side of the house.  

I used to have no boundaries when it came to Moose.  My basic attitude toward him was this:  what's mine is yours, big guy.  You want to stink up our carpet?  sure thing.  Sleep in our bed?  no problem.  Rummage through our dirty laundry and eat my underwear?  have at it.  What's that?  You want your very own 3-seater of a couch in the living room?  all yours, pal.

Then, I had a baby, and another one.  And the thing I said would never happen, happened:  he got demoted.

Before kids, I was all too happy to spend my Saturday morning scooping up enough tumbleweed to stuff a king-sized down comforter.  But now I'm washing sheets every other day because someone small is peeing in their (our) bed--and I'm waddling around like a pregnant penguin with a hernia and pissed off ligament I've come to know as Larry, who like my actual children--needs petting, love, and mothering, more mothering.  

So when it came to Moose's shit-ton of shedding, in the spirit of self-preservation, I needed to set some boundaries--literally.  

I did this by closing the door to the kitchen and placing the kid's easel at the entry of the hallway that leads to the bedrooms and playroom.  This gives him free reign of our living room, dining area, and perpetual pit of catchall crap we pretend is a decent enough space to call a mudroom.  

And ever since I set that boundary, I've been exhaling like crazy.  No more dog hair in the bathroom!

Of course I have the hurdle of the wild children, and the impatient husband moving the easel, my barricade, not to mention the dog itself, weighing in at over 110 pounds, well aware of his girth and the easel's flimsiness.  He will pine away for days to feel that shag under his belly until finally, he can't take it anymore--and knocks the bloody thing over while I'm at Trader Joe's.

It is in about the same frequency I find a half eaten piece of old fruit stuffed in my couch, that I stumble into Moose on the green carpet.  {And he is never not delighted with himself.}  

Hinging on where I fall on the spectrum of sanity I am operating under that day, I respond in one of two ways:  dammit Moose!, or... {ahem, while detoxing and reacting much slower and more sanely to this holy shit show we call life}; I soften, I smile, I crouch down next to him, and ask so tenderly, the way I used to talk to him all the time:  was it worth it buddy?

{and I always hope so.}

All of which is to say:  we all have that one thing that out-tempts the rest... it might be an eggwich from Stewarts, a chocolate croissant from a bakery that imports their butter from France, or a freaking mountain dew.  Seems like every spring detox, there's a cadbury egg devotee in the bunch.  And every fall, a pumpkin-y latte lover.  I personally, am a peanut butter cup babe, through and through.  Only you know your jam, and you know it well.

That said, at one point or another during this detox, something has tempted you, yes?  demanded your full attention, yes?  And if it wasn't in the food arena, checking your facebook thread one more time?  Staying up until midnight, or getting swallowed whole by westelm.com.

As we consider moving out of phase 2 into 3, I want you to think about what would happen if you knocked down that easel, and got what you were hankering for...

Be it a biscuit or a bagel, this is what I want you to ask your future self:

{was it worth it?}

Because Thanksgiving is coming up--and I want you to have your discernment game on.  crappy store bought cookies?  keep walkin.  yellow sheet cake from a box?  pft.  homemade pumpkin pie with whipped cream from that bakery that imports its butter from France?  now we're talkin. 

so sit down and have a slice--not five...

discernment is the practice.

setting boundaries is the method.

and crossing them is part of what it means to be alive.