I am not fake. Frankly, I don’t have the energy to lie about anything. I also don’t cheat. I am honest, loyal and I don’t hide behind pseudonyms. My words on this blog are always authentic and true. This site belongs to me and is for me to write whatever I want.

Circumstances change. Feelings vascilate.

I forgive but I never forget.

Susan Anthony left a comment on this blog and was not pleased with something I said regarding, I’m sure, my life situation and people in it. What she doesn’t know is that blog owners track their readers. It’s like big brother. No one who comes here is anonymous. Not even the yahoos in Thailand.

Yesterday would have been my grandmother’s birthday.

Today I have this story in the Chicago Tribune. I didn’t realize when I wrote it (Wednesday) how the two would intersect.

I have no doubt it is not a coincidence.

As a new parent we quickly get tuned into our babies. We know the cry that means hungry and the cry that means “I want to watch Dora.” With toddlers we know what nonsensical words mean and they end up making sense to us. You end up “just knowing” what your kids mean when they say things. It’s a parenting gift.

Another thing is, all families have their own words for things — like a secret language among people who live under one roof.

In our family I’d have to say that my favorite family word is: Motecon. (sounds like Moken)

Any guesses?

ReMOTE CONtrol.

Duh.

But special language is not reserved for human members of the family. And I realized this once again this morning.

I was blowing dry my hair, in my bathroom. The kids were dispersed and certainly well within the reach of the dog that came to me. Into the bathroom, looking up at me, barking.

Bark. Bark. Bark.

I shut off the blow dryer, looked at her and said, “NO!” in my stern dog-mom voice.

Bark. Bark. Bark.

It could not be an emergency, no other dog was barking (we have 3) and there were no screaming shrieking teens. It was obvious the dog was trying to tell me something.

“Show me,” I said.

She took off like a dog after a mouse in the backyard (another story) down the long hallway. She ran sideways glancing back to make sure I was behind her. With two legs I cannot move as quickly as she does with four, and it annoys her. She strode into the kitchen and sat beneath the kitchen counter.

Bark. Bark. Bark.

And then I knew what it meant. “There is a box of treats up there you forgot to put in the cabinet and I’ll be wanting one NOW.”

I gave her a treat and a little advice.

“You could have asked Son or Daughter for a treat you know,” I said earnestly. “They’re right over there.”

My sometimes crazy dog just looked at me, treat in mouth.

“But you’re my mom,” she said. “You understand me.”

OK, no she didn’t, but that’s what she meant.

I just know it.

*Please tell me you understand the title of this blog post!