Things are going pretty swimmingly, being an endorsed candidate for ordained ministry. I registered for my classes yesterday. Can I get a Wee hoo!? I thought so. And Mum got accepted to an art program at the university. Can I get another Wee hoo!? I thought I could. But in the midst of all the happiness about the decisions people have made about us, we have had to make a difficult decision of our own.

We have found a new home for our dog.

When we got Nozy, we were very specific about what sort of dog we needed for our family. Nozy seemed to be that sort of dog for about three days. Once we got him dewormed and eating healthy food, his demeanor changed considerably, and the mellow companion we sought was nowhere to be found except when he was sick. We don’t want a sick dog. Or an unhappy one. We have spent almost a year trying either to make the dog we have into the dog we need or to make ourselves into the family for this dog. Neither attempt has proven very successful. We’re all of us too stubborn.

We’ve really really really tried. But the last straw fell upon the camel when we had to put a muzzle on him to take him for a walk. In the city, with all the litter and untended dog shit, it is impossible for this dog not to eat something that will make him violently ill if he goes out. And our yard isn’t big or fenced enough to keep him in. And he needs a lot of exercise. And we can’t live with needing to muzzle a dog regularly for years. We can’t be that cruel. Or cruel enough to let him eat himself to death.

It wasn’t an easy decision to make, but it was really the right one. I advertised on kijiji, and found a family. They live in a small town with a big fenced yard. They want and need a dog with a lot of bounce. They have an eight-year-old boy who is high-functioning autistic and will have to wait years to get a service dog. I think this will be a good fit in a way that we really weren’t.

Nozy went to his new home today, and it’s been tough, in some ways. I (not to mention my mother) don’t like to fail at anything we set our hands to. We don’t like the loss. It’s a similar loss to the miscarriages, because we really wanted to add a member to our family, but it wasn’t meant to be.

There’s been some sad, but to balance it, we’ve been moving furniture around and getting plants and making our house what we want it to be and undoing the “temporary” changes we made a year ago for a new puppy that we were never able to rectify when the dog grew to be not-so-new.

The girls are coping incredibly well with the change. I think they liked the idea of having a dog far more than the reality of this particular dog. I’d also like to give a shout-out to Jane O’Connor and Robin Preiss Glasser because this book and our children’s love for it totally saved the day. God-bless Fancy Nancy.

In conclusion, while this may not have been our first charity of choice (if you’d asked) to which we’d like to give a year of time and many many thousands of dollars, there is no doubt that preparing a companion for an autistic child is a very good cause. And we feel mostly good about that.

Decisions are being made about my future. Maybe even as I type this, people are trying to decide what they think God wants for me. The Committee for Theological Education and Leadership decides today whether or not to endorse me as a candidate for ordained ministry. Not just me, other applicants too. But, like a good Christian, I’m really most concerned about my own vocation at the moment.

This has been a long time coming. This is not my decision to make. I’ve been running from this decision for years, but it would seem that I can avoid it no longer, and I (and everyone who has to put up with me) will be happiest if I just focus my energies on following the call rather than fleeing it.

This decision by the committee is a very big step. It’s the next essential step before I can move forward from here. It’s far from the last step. I have about five more years of paying people to help me bust my brain for Jesus before they’ll start paying me to do the work. I’m not complaining. I have really really a lot to learn before I’m anywhere near ready to take on that kind of responsiblility.

This step is a doozy, though. I’ve done all I can, and now it’s completely someone else’s decision to make. Lots of other people have already made their decisions about me. The seminary has accepted me as a student. The government has approved my student loan. I’ve read my psych evaluation and I am certifiably sane. I’m also not unsuited to the work, apparently. My top five interest areas according to some snazzy personality and aptitude tests are 1. Religion & Spirituality, 2. Teaching & Education, 3. Counseling & Helping, 4. Writing & Mass Communication, 5. Performing Arts. I can probably handle the workload of being clergy.

I (and everyone who has to put up with me) will be very surprised if I am not endorsed by the CTEL committee. But the official endorsement is a crucial part of the process, so it’s kind of a big deal. I think maybe the biggest thrill for me if this does come through is that I will be able to officially stop trying to find something else to do. I can stop attempting to stuff myself into all the round holes I come across and proudly say to the world, “I’m a square.”

I just checked my email, and I’m in! I am an endorsed candidate to study for ordination. Mum and Terry, my ordained parents, have given me a handcrafted Italian silver pectoral cross as a congratulations gift. At 36, I may be starting to get an inking of what I’ll be when I grow up.

Do you ever have those moments when you see really clearly how others must see you? The image you project to the world? I’m insecure enough to be pretty conscious about what people must think of me most of the time. And parenting makes that a squagillion times worse. Parents always judge other parents. Don’t try to tell me they don’t. Non-parents judge parents, too. Parenting is the most popular, most vicious spectator sport around. Like roller derby, but the hot chicks wear less fishnet, more fishsticks.

I am constantly wondering what kind of parent I am, and if I’m making the best choices for my kids, and basically doing my best while not having a clue whether I’m on the right track or not. Every once in a while, for about ten seconds, I hit a groove, and I feel like the image I portray and the person I am are on speaking terms with each other and I am parenting, if not the best, at least the best I can and the right way for me to do it. I had one of those moments today.

I’m never going to be a SoccerMom. My kids may play soccer, but even if they do, I will really not be a SoccerMom. There are all kinds of other Moms that I am also not. I’m not even a Mom. It’s Mum, thanks, with a u. Just like my Mum and hers before her. AttachmentParentingMom is one of those. Sure, I’ll share my bed from time to time, when somebody’s sick or scared, so I don’t have to get up every ten seconds, but I need some space that is my space and some space that is grown-up space. And I’ll carry a baby close to me. I’ll nurse it for as long as it likes. I’ll wrap it in funky fabric whathaveyous and cover its bum in cloth but I will not “wear” a child. And I will put it in a crib. I don’t give a fuck if you think it’s a prison. An infant has no concept of prison, and, as previously mentioned, I need my space. You may be unsurprised to learn that there are plenty of this sort of Parent at a Suzuki String Experience. There are also a few SuperMoms. There is one woman who brings her six children to strings. Five of them play violin and viola and cello while the youngest breastfeeds. This woman is also a doctor. I am sure as shit not that Parent. I can’t even make that many babies, much less feed them and clothe them and heal their sicknesses and cart them around town and teach them to play stringed instruments. My Mum and I combined can only do about half of those things, and we’re generally considered pretty competent. That kind of Mom just makes other women look bad.

Today I saw what sort of parent I am. I am the one with the torn jeans and the psychotically frizzy hair dashing madly through the pouring rain to top up the parking meter clutching two teeny-tiny violin cases in one hand and doing all the other stuff with the other hand while my Mum helps take care of the kids. I am not classy or well-groomed or even particularly clean. I don’t make it look easy, but I get the job done.

I’m there, parenting to the best of my ability. It’s not the best parenting out there, but it’ll do. I fall so very far short of perfect, and I need a lot of help. I’m often not the parent I’d like to be. Sure, I’d love to have nine brilliant children with whom I never lose my temper writing protest songs while I make organic soup and defend my PhD. But that’s not the way it’s going to work out.

I’m not the parent or the person I thought I’d be, but I’m not so bad. And neither are you. It occurred to me that you never really know what you’re going to be when you grow up, and sometimes it’s a pleasant surprise. When I saw today what kind of parent I am, I was satisfied. I thought that I wasn’t sure how I got here, but I could stand to be that Parent.

And then I remembered that I was that Kid who wrestled a cello onto a city bus for three years, and I wasn’t so surprised with myself anymore.