Our new kangaroo is supposed to arrive next week.

I'll be honest with you: I think maybe something is wrong with me. And also with pretty much everybody I know.

As long as we've lived in our house, which is about four years, Jason has wanted a dog. A big dog. Some sort of large, bounding, herding dog that the kids can ride around the back yard and that can kill whole cows and bring them home for dinner. I have spent this last four years saying no, a thousand times no, we don't need a dog and we can't have a dog and if we were going to get a dog I want a Chinese Crested. Jason's response was "Hell no on the Chinese Crested but OF COURSE we need a dog and can have a dog. A BIG ONE."

So we've continued on in this manner for all these years.

Then last week happened.

Nothing in particular has changed or occurred. I don't have a clue what has happened to my brain. Maybe the prozac; I don't know. But suddenly Jason has been on this blue heeler kick and for whatever reason I said, "Okay, let's look at blue heelers."

So I've been looking up dogs, and it turns out Jason is incredibly particular. And it's not even like there is some list I can go by; Jason simply can look at the dog and know if it's "his dog" or not. This one is too tall. This one is to small. This one prompted Jason to say "I will not be able to fucking sleep knowing that dog is in our house."

I love all three of those dogs, so someone should go adopt them so I don't have to worry about them any more.

Anyway, we think we've found a dog we like. We've filled out adoption applications. Yesterday I finally got up the nerve to tell my mom about it. My mom is the lady who always says no, a thousand times no, we don't need a cat/dog/goat and if we get a cat/dog/goat she's going to throw herself off the roof of her house in protest.

What did she say yesterday? "Well, you know, I've had dogs all my life. I can't argue with you."

WHAT?!? So all I could think was, "Well I HAVE to send the adoption applications in NOW with all that flippant gauntlet-throwing she's doing right there."

Listen, the truth is I had dogs and cats throughout my childhood. I had Poochie, a little round mutt who followed me everywhere and took care of me and was a hell of a watch dog (the poor UPS guy). Then I had Ruppleduffie, a huge lab mix who was goofy and spent most of his puppyhood sleeping on top of a large basket of pecans. Now I'm not going to lie and say that I took complete care of them and my mom never had to lift a finger- she did the majority of the feeding and bathing and taking care of those dogs. But I helped. And I loved them intensely, and played with them, and pet them and stroked them and talked to them and took their pictures and dressed them in doll clothes. They were my pets.

Since my head has been so clear lately I've re-evaluating a lot, including how I'm raising Reed. I think we're doing a pretty good job, but I realized that I don't want him to grow up, to be a six year old and then a nine year old and then a twelve year old without ever having helped to raise a dog. I don't want him to grow up without knowing what it feels like to love a dog, to take care of it, to see its happy face when he comes home from school. Kane and Jude have had a wide assortment of pets, a few at our house and a lot at their mom's house, and I sometimes worry that their mom is teaching them that pets are disposable and you can just move on to the next one if the first one doesn't work out. I think maybe this might be good for them, too.

Last night I asked Reed, "Would you like to have a dog that lives here with us?" He got very excited very fast and said, "Yes! I wish I had a dog. I would like to have a dog."

So I guess that settles it. Reed is a normal kid and my mom and I are crazy as shit-house rats. Congratulations to us all.