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Momservation: Seeing your children’s hearts break over the loss of a pet is enough to swear off adopting anything else that lives outside the arthropod classification.

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When I got up this morning, out of habit I looked for him in his bed. He wasn’t there.

When I came out of the bathroom he didn’t greet me.

My morning routine to let him out, fix his breakfast, and give him his medicine was unnecessary and so my whole day feels off.

As I sit at the computer it is profoundly sad that he is not here next to me in his usual spot. He won’t be bugging me to play with him. He won’t be quietly keeping me company. He won’t be there when I take a break to give him some love.

And when my kids get up, just as I dried their tears last night as they cried themselves to sleep, I will start my day trying to find words that will be a salve for their broken hearts. It’ll be hard because I don’t even have the answers to heal my own.

We are all desperately missing Kyber. Daddy, his own heart constricted with sorrow over having to take his best hunting partner for his last ride, finally convinced us of our selfishness in keeping him around just so we wouldn’t have to face life without him.

He is Kyber. Our family’s yellow Lab and my fuzzy baby and he is gone. He is the reason I still haven’t seen “Marley and Me” and probably never will.

He was adopted, but I loved him as my own. From the moment we brought him home, all floppy eared and giant feet, we knew our hearts would never be the same. He was my first born baby, my constant companion, and owner of the softest ears I have ever felt. There is not a picture in our house or home movie where he is not somewhere in the story of our lives.

And after 14 ½ years of bring absolute joy to our lives, he also became the cause of one of our biggest heartaches.

I know he would’ve kept fighting his failing 100 year old dog body forever for us – it was simply enough for him just to be near us, but in the end he couldn’t even do that because he couldn’t get up to follow us from room to room.

So it was time to say goodbye.

But how do you tell such a vital part of your family it’s time to go? How do you explain to them that even though their heart and their mind are still strong and sharp, their crippled body just can’t sustain them anymore? How do you look your fuzzy baby in the eyes and say, “Because I love you, I’m letting you go.”?

Let me know if you figure it out.

I’ll be here trying to right my children’s world again, trying to keep them in their routine so their resilient souls can begin mending.

Which is achingly hard when I’m still stooping to pick up chocolate that was left where the dog could eat it and get sick; Or reaching for the licorice bucket for Kyber’s favorite treat as I do the laundry; Or still looking for him in every room of the house.

I can’t stop myself from absent-mindedly singing his theme song to the tune of Spiderman I created long ago: “Kyber Bo, Kyber Bo, he’s the cutest don’t you know. Runs real fast, speed of light, gives me dog kisses every night.”

As I sit here at the computer, I can still hear the echo of his bark trying to entice me to play, the sound I’ve told him a hundred times to “knock it off” so I can get some work done.

Now as I spin around in my chair to kiss his irresistible smiling face, rub his soft ears and say, “You want to play? Okay, just for a minute,” his absence cuts my heart again. Even though he’s not physically here I still softly sing him the ode the kids and I made up, aching to wrap my arms around him for the hundred millionth time. “I know a little Kyber, cute as can be, and I like to pet him, because he’s so fuzzy.”

My fuzzy baby is gone and 100 dog years just seems too soon to say goodbye.

♥        & nbsp; ♥        & nbsp; ♥

In memory of Kyber Bo Wheeler, a dog with his own theme song, owner of the softest ears in the world, who long ago transcended the meaning of “pet.”

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Momservation: Apparently the same rule applies to filming reality television as dealing with a tantrum – just act natural while you ignore all the commotion and don’t be afraid to step aside and take a deep breath to regroup.

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My fifteen minutes of fame has finally arrived! Actually, it’ll only be three minutes, and I won’t even be in all the scenes, so probably really about two, but I will finally be recognized for my amazing…outdated kitchen.

Okay, so it’s not a book deal or film rights to my blog, but a three minute commercial on the DIY and Food Network channels is still quite a coup! And I get a brand new kitchen for all my amazing acting talent! Well, okay, to let them film the chaos that is our family life. No acting involved whatsoever.

Details, details, I know!

It all started when my husband, Trey, fell into this gig of being the occasional “Expert Contractor” for the DIY Channel’s new show “House Crashers.” Same thing as the popular “Yard Crashers” running right now, but this indoor version will begin this fall.

So, now that Trey’s got his pinky toe in the television loop, we find out about a commercial they’ll be filming where they want a real family in need of new appliances and a kitchen update to show them off.

Oooh, ooh, pick me, pick me!

I submitted my most adorable family photo, took perfectly lit pictures of my beat up kitchen, and (this is where I like to think my writing prowess tipped the deal in our favor) did a one page sob story that I knew I could be the every day Kelly Ripa if I just had new appliances to make my life easier.

We were selected from four other families and I have been sitting in the make-up chair and giving my best busy mom shtick for the past week.

And the best part about it all? My kitchen looks FABULOUS and it was all done in ONE WEEK with the commercial client picking up the tab!

That’s right – one week of my house being absolutely turned upside down with crap from my kitchen in nearly every room in my house, dust in every crevice of my home that I’ve decided can stay where I can’t see it, cooking toaster waffles on my living room coffee table, early morning contractors taking the fun out of sleeping in on summer vacation, TV production crew everywhere I turn (including the bathrooms), and producers telling me I’m not filming today then deciding to catch my “surprise” reaction when I’ve just walked in the door stinky and sweaty in my workout gear, no make-up and a Medusa ponytail.

As I write this, the production crew is setting up for the final day of shooting and the “Big Reveal.” My kitchen looks amazing with new stainless steal appliances, granite counter tops, glass tiles, painted cabinets with brushed nickel knobs and they’ve pimped it all out with accessories that look like I have Martha Stewart personally decorating my house.

I’m not due in the make-up chair for another hour and I have clothes picked out for my kids and Trey that are solid color (no black, white or red though) and logo free. My house is filled with camera, light, sound guys, producers, food specialists (to make it look like I really made all the fabulous food in my kitchen), and a gofer and intern asking me what I want for lunch. Everyone’s following me around trying to make me, my family, my house and my life look like fabulous and effortless.

I could get used to this.

Of course it is all an illusion, made for TV, and at the end of the day it’s back to whining, hungry kids and wondering what I’m going to make for dinner with all my dishes still in my bedroom.

I wonder if I could talk them into leaving the food specialist behind.

Momservation: If you can make it through childhood without stitches, breaking, fracturing, or spraining something, you didn’t have enough fun.

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I think right up there with the fear of coming out of the bathroom with your skirt stuck in your underwear, is a mother’s fear that her instinct was wrong and a trip to the emergency room was in order rather than a band-aid, a kiss, and instructing “just shake it off.”

It’s interesting how lax you get as your children get older. When my kids were little I thought a paper cut needed stitches. Any fever I was sure was the first stage of the West Nile Virus. A rash - the reemerging of Small Pox. A bump on the head, I was waking that kid every 20 minutes and checking pupils.

I’m not sure when it happened, maybe after the first set of stitches. Maybe after the dislocated elbow. Possibly after seeing my son crash his dirt bike or a giant goose-egg rise out of his forehead. But at some point I realized my kids were pretty tough. They took a lickin’ and kept on tickin’. I could keep them bubble wrapped on the couch or I could let them be kids and deal with the injuries one band-aid and kiss at a time.

I can’t tell you how many times my kids have gotten hurt and I quickly evaluated and determined only a band-aid, kiss and hug, or ice was needed (it’s a well known mommy fact that band-aids, kisses and an ice pack cure almost any ailment).But in the back of my mind was always this nagging fear, left over from the overprotective early years, what if I’m wrong and this isn’t just a drill? Would I miss the signs of a real emergency?

Enter my daughter, Whitney. Age 8 and thanks to her older brother, Logan, tough as nails. Those two play like puppies and in the ensuing rough-housing Whitney has lost two teeth, gotten two stitches, dislocated her elbow and had countless other injuries all in the name of a little fun.

I was sure that out of my two kids, if there ever was a broken bone, it was going to be Whitney and somehow involve her overzealous brother.

Well, I was right on one count. It was Whitney, but her brother had nothing to do with it. Although she said, “It was at his baseball game, so I can still blame him.”

It ended up being a playground injury – she slipped off a bar and broke her fall, and her arm.

At first when Whitney came up to me, not even a tear in her eye, to tell me she hurt her arm and thought it was broken, I nearly brushed it aside ready to remedy with a kiss. Especially since I was engrossed in the excitement of Logan’s championship game. No tears, no big deal.

But after I got her some ice, thinking it was more to sooth her fear than her injury, Whitney started sobbing in pain. Way out of character. Everyone I had take a look at her arm thought it looked okay. But my mommy instinct was ringing like Spiderman’s spidey sense. We did our RICE - Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation and I got a doctor’s appointment.

When I took Whitney to the doctor first thing the next morning, I had no doubt her arm was broken. I even asked her what color cast she was going to get. When the doctor delivered the confirming news, I felt a surge of validation that I got it right. I actually felt like I should’ve earned some sort of mommy badge of excellence for knowing this wasn’t just a drill and what to do in case of a real emergency.

On the way out of the doctor’s I asked Whitney what she thought of being first to the finish line of broken bones.

On the mend and back in usual form, a sly grin spread across her face, “Now,” she said, “My brother can’t touch me.”

Momservation: Why does the sudden onset of vomiting always seem to occur in the middle of the night?

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We are officially on summer vacation! Note the enthusiasm now, because in eight weeks or less I will be begging you to take my children.

So here’s how we celebrated the last day of school and the beginning of summer vacation:

My daughter came teetering out of school on a sugar high with a half-eaten doughnut in her hand announcing, “Hey mom, today I’ve had two doughnuts, a cookie, candy, a popsicle and hot dog!”

Normally I would’ve called her on lack of healthy choices, but it was the last day of school and all. Plus, we were racing off to try and catch the next showing of the movie “Up” with a bunch of friends and I was distracted throwing ten tons of crap from their desks into the back of my car.

When we arrived at the movies I got the biggest tub of popcorn so I could get refills, passed out the candy I bought ahead of time at Walgreens ($1 jumbo boxes), and indulged the kids in Coke Icees.

Then that night we decided to go out to dinner to celebrate the great report cards (BRAG ALERT – principal wrote “Wow!” on Logan’s report card under his multiple O+s for Outstanding and Whitney’s teacher suggested she be tested for GATE. I’m sure these are my genes). At dinner I let the kids have another soda, Whitney wolfed down some greasy chicken nuggets, finishing it off with a sundae that came with the kids meal.

I guess in our excitement for the last day of school, the sum of all the junk food parts never added up for me. Like a horror movie where everyone can see what’s coming next accept the girl about to open the closet door with a chainsaw buzzing behind it, it never occurred to me I might have let the kids overindulge a bit. Okay, maybe a lot.

Cut to 3:30 in the morning and my Mom Radar wakes me out of a dead sleep to the sound of heaving. I jump up and dash to Logan’s doorway. Squinting into his dark room I call, “Who’s barfing?”

Upon hearing another heave coming from Whitney’s room I spring into action. I race into her room, scoop her 75 pound body out of bed and half carry, half drag her to the toilet, shoving her half-asleep head over the bowl.

The good news is she finished puking in the toilet and immediately felt better. The bad news is the first half was all over her bed and floor.

So I completed the ritual performed by moms the world over. I tucked my daughter into my bed next to my husband who was still deeply sleeping or deeply pretending to sleep. I stripped the bed, treated and washed the linens, scrubbed and treated the barf stained carpet, put fresh sheets on the bed, wiped down the toilet and took the barf bag out to the trash – all in my underwear in the wee hours of the morning.

Welcome summer vacation.

Momservation: It’s hard not to think of the end of the school year as a threat to my sanity.

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There’s three days left until school gets out for the summer. I don’t know yet if I’m excited or panicked.

I’m really looking forward to sleeping in. But then once we get up the mantra of “What are we going to do today?” begins.

Jazzed about no more daily tedium of homework, book reports, science reports, oral reports…bummed about day after day latherings of sunscreen.

Stoked about a break from shuttling kids to school, extracurricular activities, and playdates…wait, I’ll still be shuttling kids from camp, extracurricular activities and playdates.

Pretty happy I won’t need to jump up to make breakfast and lunches before rushing out the door…will need to buy Costco sized boxes of corn dogs, chips and juice boxes for all the friends that will rushing in the door.

It’ll be nice to have some lazy days with no agenda…until I start yelling at my kids to get their lazy butts off the couch and do something besides video games and reruns of “Full House.”

I can’t wait to go on our camping trips…until I have to unpack it all, wash it all, hose it off and put it away again.

I always enjoy catching summer movies with the kids…until the thought of having to sit through a movie about FBI trained guinea pigs makes me long for “R-ratings.”

I think it’ll be fun to spend some quality time with my kids…until the end of August when I’m ready to send their fighting, whining, unappreciative little brown bear bodies back to school.

That’ll be in 83 days – but who’s counting…