Jul 19, 2016

On adopting babies and such...

If you have been following this blog for a while, you may wonder why there was a huge long pause and then suddenly I came back and there was a toddler in my stories.  As most of you know, I was, in my other life, previously a single dog lady with a side-helping of cats.

All of a sudden, fate threw me a curveball and life changed in every way.

Now, I am also (I still have aforementioned dog and cats) a single adoptive mother of a splendid baby boy, who is actually now a toddler.  It was a private adoption and I will spare the lad's privacy by not telling you the circumstances surrounding it, but suffice it to say it was a huge life change.  The lad, whom, for the time being, I referred to as "Meatloaf" due to his gargantuan size (he was 22 lbs. at less than 6 months), was born in December 2013 and came home from the hospital with me.

People's reactions varied to the news, but mostly, everyone sweetly said things like, "Holy f***, M!  You f***ing adopted a child!" and other endearing nothings of that nature.

The most common reaction, though, happened something like this:

Person: Hey, M, what's new?
Me: Well, I adopted a baby.
Person:  A baby?  Like...umm... a baby dog? Like a puppy?
Me: No, like a little boy baby.
Person:  A boy puppy?  What did you name him?  Is he neutered yet?
Me: Like a human boy baby.  He's not neutered.
Person:  Holy f***, M!  You adopted a f***ing child!"

This happened far more often than one would imagine.  And even though I have been known to cuss like a sailor, my eardrums were pretty much seared from all the F-bombs I heard in those early weeks during which I suddenly announced to the world that actually, I'd had a baby living with me for a few weeks already.

Because it was the middle of winter in the midwest (the worst winter since 1979, so they say) and because I have a dog, I would put my darling Meatloaf (who was actually a mere Porkchop at the time) inside a sling inside a special "babywearing coat" which cost somewhere between 175 and eleventy billion dollars, zip him under there good, and go cross the tundra to let the dog tinkle.

One of my neighbors spotted me and my bulging (is it just me, or does that word always sound naughty??) coat, and the conversation started anew.  Except this time, when I mentioned I had a baby in my coat, my neighbor expressed her doubts.  She actually asked me to open my coat and show her the baby, which I did, mostly because I was kinda stunned.

At this point, she peers into my coat, spots DSS's baldish head and says, "No f-ing way! Are you kidding me!?  You totally stuck a doll in there!  Right?!"

Let me tell you something... I am quite confused as to how it is believable that I am crazy enough to walk around with a doll in a 179 thousand dollar, gold-lined baby-wearing coat trying to trick hapless neighbors into thinking I adopted a baby, faking my glassy-eyed "I-haven't-slept-in-4-weeks" look," but apparently it would not be believable that I had actually adopted a baby (the kind that you don't have to neuter).

My most favoritest SMH adoption story happened when a lady from the bank came to refinance my condo.  As she worked, she asked questions about Dear Sweet Son and about his adoption. Now, at this point, I had already told her that he was currently eight months old and that he had been with me since he was born. 

As he sat on my lap, cooing, laughing, and drinking his bottle, she looked at me, perplexed, and queried helpfully, "Wow!  He really seems to like you!  Do you think he knows who you are?"

Cricket... cricket...

Umm, well, sheesh... I sure hope so... I have changed almost every diaper and filled every bottle since the day he was born. It would be shockingly bizarre if he woke up every morning and thought, "Well, who the flippin'-flop is this lady?!"

A few minutes later, she asked me if his adoption was the kind where "you don't have to return him, or the kind where he has to go back."  I'm really not certain where she got her adoption information, but the textbook she used clearly leaves a lot to be desired....

I think at one point, every adoptive parent has heard something similarly odd(or they have very nice, tactful, well-informed friends), but sheesh, you can't make this stuff up!

A delayed welcome to my Fries with Mayo World, little (aherm...) Meatloaf!

Jul 17, 2016

Do Pets Prepare You for Children? Yes. Yes, they do.

One of the good things about being a pet owner before being a parent is that you get the opportunity to sometimes practice with parenting tools, such a cabinet locks, ahead of time. Now, you might make a guess that the dog would get into the trash or something, or maybe into the pantry cupboard, and this is why I would need the cabinet locks, but you would be wrong.

Luckily for me, Bad Cat is about as bright as a sack of rocks... or maybe a sack of broken light bulbs, because we know how bright those are.

Unfortunately, Good Cat is blessed with above average cat intelligence and can open all cabinet doors using strange combinations of head banging and paw flipping.  This in itself would not be a problem if a) he didn't open the linen closet and b) Bad Cat didn't love to pee on linens.

So anyway, cabinet locks.  Yay.

Good Cat, as I've previously mentioned, has a splendid and hearty appetite, especially after he has indulged in a good hit of catnip.

One day, I came home from work to find Good Cat missing and Bad Cat looking decidedly put out.  After much searching of rooms, I decided perhaps I should check all the cabinets and closets, and I started with the kitchen since it seemed like as good a place as any.

Upon opening the trash can cabinet, I found a rather repugnant sight.  There was "Good" Cat, lying belly up inside the trash can, a chicken bone underneath his crossed paws, and a few pieces of chicken skin strewn across his shiny coat.  And no, I am not saying "shiny" in a complimentary way because he was shiny in the same way that Fat Bastard was in the eyeball-searing scene in one of the Austin Powers movie, the one where he (Fat Bastard) is lying in bed wearing not much except turkey grease and snaggle-toothed smile.

Now before you panic about sweet, soft kitties and the fact that Good Cat might actually be dead in this story, I want to remind you that he was still mentioned as being alive in my other post, so you should stop fretting.  Good Cat was just seriously bloated, pancreas probably just on the verge of exploding like a water balloon filled with tomato sauce (tomato balloon?), satisfied as all get out, covered in chicken grease-slime, and apparently quite proud of himself.

He didn't even try to fight back as I removed him from the trash can; he was like a 15 lb. sack of nasty, grease-covered, hairy whale blubber.

I had one of my friends come help me set up those little flippy cabinet locks the next day.  For the next week, Good Cat would sidle up to the trash can cabinet hopefully, a lusty gleam in his cat eye, and attempt the paw-flip/head-bang the cabinet open.

It never worked again.

Jul 14, 2016

The Truth Comes From the Mouth of Babes, Except When It Doesn't

They say the truth comes from the mouth of babes.  This may be true, except that sometimes, lies also come out of the mouths of babes, and then everyone's so busy believing trite platitudes about the truth that they assume the lies are truths and awkward awkwardness ensues.

This came to play the other day (and several times since) when I went to the wonderful world that is Walmart.  Dear Sweet Son was in the cart, charming people with his winning smile as usual, trying to grab energy shots (which we know toddlers need quite much) off the shelves of the checkout line.

As we got the the cashier, DSS decided to woo two middle-aged female employees with his great charms.  They succumbed instantly and began cooing over him in broken English (and I say this with love, as someone who spoke broken English for quite some time), patting his bare feet (bare due to the bizarre toddler need to instantly remove all footwear), and patting his adorable buzzcut.  He smiled his smile, turned around and directed their attention to the entrance of the bathroom (conveniently located near the register).

He then proceeded to whisper in a shouting sort of tone, a highly important piece of information:

This was a blatant lie.  I do not, in fact, poop in the Walmart bathroom.  In fact, I cannot think of the last time I pooped in a Walmart bathroom ever, even before he was born.

The two lovely ladies, however, appeared to believe his every word.  They looked at me, concerned, as if trying to figure out if they had correctly understood his Frenchly-accented English, looked at me as though to say, "So YOU'RE the one who poops in our bathrooms!?!"

No.  No I am not.

I laughed a hearty, devil-may-care laugh, as if to say, "Silly kids!  Full of completely nonsensical untrue untruth!  Har-dee-har."

In reality, which is what happened outside of my head, I turned a crimson color and stammered, "No!  No, I don't go poop there!  I've never gone poop in there and I have no idea where he got that idea!"

Meanwhile, my traitorous child repeated this piece of information with an innocent, persuasive look upon his traitorous face.  Pointed innocently to the bathroom, eyes wide open.  Looked at the two ladies with doe eyes meant to convey he was a pawn, dragged into a public bathroom for my pooping pleasure.

The ladies' bathroom sign taunted me (ok, I realize that in the picture, it slightly resembles an ad for a naughty nightclub of sorts, but it was supposed to convey taunting-ness) as I hustled my little Benedict Arnold out of the Walmart, the two little ladies still staring at us wide-eyed with shock and disbelief.

Lest you think this story stops here, it doesn't.  Let me tell you something about Targets and Walmarts and such: their bathrooms are all right by the cash register.  Every time we leave the store, my DSS will shout, "Mommy poops here!"

And I still don't.

Not even at Target, which has nicer bathrooms with far less toilet paper on the floor.