VERY SERIOUS ANNOUNCEMENT SLASH SERIOUS CRY FOR HELP.

Okay y'all this is a serious.

First -  I blogged. Am blogging. Currently right now. First time for really since 2016 or something. Do they still call it blogging? I don't even know. But that thing I used to do where I  rambled on the internet ... I'm sorta doing it. Today at least. Maybe regularly because oh my word - menopause. Can we talk menopause? Oh the mind blogs I've written about it!  No no no we can't right now cause of the ^^ all caps up there focus Missy focus. Maybe I'll transfer all my posts or something later but I can't think about now. Because. Emergency.

If you've no clue who I am I'm Missy, I used to blog at It's Almost Naptime about having lots of  little kids and international adoption and stuff. Naptime is currently private until I can censor it because, teenagers. Hi! Welcome! Help!

So here we go -

But wait let me back up. 

Something huge happened last year. Here's a picture of it. 

Remember him?? Not Walker, the other him. My tiny little baby boy. He left me. For college. In a whole nother STATE. So rude.

And then like that wasn't enough trauma for a lifetime, in a few months I'm sending my little toddler girl to some other college. And there are three more after that! Three! More! How come none of y'all ever told me when I had five kids that meant that all five would some day leave me? All five! Gone! So rude!

This is some heavy emotional lifechanging busines. On top of all the hormones and stuff. 

Ever since Shep's junior year, I've been saying that when all my kids are gone I will transform into one of those middle aged empty nester ladies who push little pink doll carriages bearing spoiled maltis. The maltis always have cute pink hairbows to match the cute pink carriages and when you ask Middle Age Empty Nester Lady "aw, what's her name?" she says, "His name is Butch," or similar because the dogs are never biologically female, but that small fact will not deter Middle Age Empty Nester Lady from excessive feminine canine adornment. I imagine there is a husband somewhere who told her, "you can paint his toenails all you want, but our man dog is getting a man name," hence Butch shows up at the H-E-B in a fuchsia Swarovski encrusted sweater vest.

My plan was therefore to someday have a cute gender-fluid dropkick puppy. Later. In three, four years. Maybe after Ike left and it was just me and Walker and Bethie. Probably 2025, 26. I made this plan even though I'm not a dog person. 

If you read my blog back in the day, you will recall that we did once, very briefly, have a dog. 

It was a less than positive experience.

We rescued a poodle named Rocket, his breed carefully chosen because poodles are supposed to be smart and easy to train and hypoallergenic. Only this poodle never got that memo because this poodle was dumb as the dog poo he untrained all over the rugs. Then, poor little Maggie got kicked out of preschool because they believed she was Patient Zero for a pending nationwide impetigo epidemic, which was actually eczema that caused her to scratch until she bled, caused by the supposedly hypoallergenic poodle who was too dumb to not bolt out of the door whenever it opened (yeah yeah like a rocket,) which lead to a rightfully concerned lady ringing my doorbell one afternoon after spying four very small children, one clad only in a dirty diaper, running down the very busy street in our neighborhood chasing a dumb allergen laden poodle like some weird and wrong toddler Scooby Doo episode.  Rocket returned to the rescue center, we lost $300, Shep's heart was broken, Walker and I had one of the worst fights in our marriage and I swore we'd never, ever, get a dog ever again. Because I'm not even a dog person!

But then. My son went to college and God spoke to me in a dream. 

Except we're Presbyterian and we don't believe that God speaks to us in dreams so let's just say it seemed like he did but he surely didn't because we're Presbyterian and we don't believe in that stuff. 

So in my dream God didn't tell me to get a puppy like some unreformed charismatic. But it seemed like he kinda did. Driving Eva Rose home that afternoon, I mentioned my dream to her and we marveled at how crazy it was that I would even consider getting a dog being that I'm not a dog person. Then, right in the midst of our marveling, literally on the sidewalk of my very own house, stood a neighbor with the most adorable, sweet, gentle, smart dog I'd ever seen. I petted this perfect creature and fell in love and knew right then, we had to get a dog, now. 

Because the transformation had commenced!  I had become a dog person!

Our neighbor raved about what a wonderful dog he was because he was a wonderful breed: a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. 

The children of King Charles I, 1634. 

 Note those are not poodles. 

I had always seen these dogs in paitings because I am an English history nerd. Another not-sign.

Then, the next day, I saw another school mom walking her precious Cav, hounded her fo advice, and she immediately sent me very long facebook messages gushing about what an amazing breed they are. That makes four - four un-signs in one week, y'all/

So, after a year of finding a breeder and talking myself in and out and into it again, I invite you to meet Twomey, named for my beloved grandmother:

JUST LOOK AT MY NEW BABY

Oh my goodness I just realized anther un-sign! King Charles III just ascended to the throne! Another sign. Sometimes God is real obvious so that even Presbyterians can't deny! 

This is the point of this post! Twomey comes home Friday! Help me! I have a crate. I know I need a bell for the door and a bed. Someone mentioned a heartbeat stuffed animal. 

What else? Links? Advice? I'm a new dog mommy and I need your help! 

Help the DOG PERSON out!