Waiting for the deuce

For me, one of the bonuses about being pregnant was getting to wrangle out of a household chore that I really despise: cleaning the catbox.

As everyone knows, pregnant women aren’t supposed to clean the litterbox.  And since I always followed the pregnancy letter of the law to a “T”, I made this tidbit known to my husband pretty much the moment we found out we were expecting.  “It’s just not safe for the baby,” I explained, while munching on a cold cut sandwich.

So he obliged.  And, to my delight, he continued cleaning it weekly, even after the babies were born.

I admit, I also didn’t offer to take it back.  I figure I cleaned up enough human poop to make up for it.   But that meant that for the past six years, I’ve been lucky enough to stay far, far away from the litter box.

Until this morning.

Today is Booyah’s routine pet exam.  And apparently, since she’s getting up there in cat years, we get to take something extra to her annual exams.

A fecal sample.  More specifically, a fresh fecal sample.

Now, if you’re a dog owner, this might not seem like a big deal to you.  If you’re like all-but-one-of-my-neighbors, you’re probably used to scooping up the little gems in tidy little plastic bags and depositing the warm little presents in the garbage.

But for a cat owner, and more specifically, for a cat owner who has grown accustomed to not handling animal turds, it is a big deal.

So here I am, typing away at the computer.  Waiting for Booyah to drop a deuce so that I can go hunting through the litter box for nuggets.  It’s like waiting for the grass to grow.  Only stinkier.

After which I get to wrestle my angry, scratching pet into a cat carrier that she loathes more than anything.  And then I’ll drive said cat, moaning and hissing to the vet and back.

It almost makes me wish I were pregnant again, so I could delegate that task to my wonderful husband.

But on the plus side, I figure my day can only go up from here.

The Very Hungry Momma

In the light of the moon, a little egg lay waiting.

One candlelit evening, after a romantic dinner and a few martinis, the egg was, well, bombarded.  And… pop!  It started to grow.

When the egg was discovered, the parents were ecstatic.  They immediately dubbed the little egg “Chip.”  Because, as they explained to their daughter, it was only the size of a chocolate chip.

But as “Chip” grew and grew, it created a tiny, and very hungry little momma.

She started to look for some food.

The first trimester was rough.  She ate through 6 boxes of Saltine crackers, a dozen 2-litres of Ginger Ale, and a ginormous bag of lemon drops.

Alas, even though she felt like ralphing all the time, she was still hungry.  It’s just that nothing sounded appealing.

But by the second trimester, her appetite returned with a vengeance.  She ate through 10 rotisserie chickens, 23 Big Mac Meals (super sized, of course), countless slices of pepperoni pizza and a 5-gallon tub of Red Vine licorice.

And she was still hungry.

By the third trimester, she was on a roll.  She was eating through a jelly donut every morning, as well as any other food that dared stand in her way.

But she was still hungry.

Sometimes, after hoovering all of the non-perishable edibles in the house, she’d have a tummy ache.  Her doctor called it heartburn.  She ate through one bottle of Tums.  After that, she felt much better.

And after that, she wasn’t hungry anymore.  Because there simply wasn’t any room on her little frame left to accommodate any more food.  And she also wasn’t a little momma anymore.  She had gained almost 50 pounds, and was now a big momma.  She was ready to burst.

So she made a nursery and decorated it lovingly with stars and cowboy hats fitting for a little buckaroo.  She nested.  She cocooned.

One night, she was awoken by some strange stirrings from within the cocoon.  They made their way to the hospital.

Where they waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Through multiple episodes of Cash Cab.  Through a dozen games of solitaire.  Through nine hours of watching the lines of the contractions make pretty little hills and valleys up and down the paper.

In the midst of this she felt a familiar rumbling in her stomach.  She was hungry.

She asked for food.  A banana, a cracker, a jelly donut… anything besides popsicles and water.  She pleaded.  They denied.

“It won’t be long now,” they told her.  “Just a little while longer, and then we’ll get you something to eat.”

So she waited some more.  And, finally, it was time for him to arrive.

And when he emerged?  She suddenly forgot getting something to eat.  She instantly forgot about the months of morning sickness, and the pain.  She forgot about how tired she was, or the ravenous hunger that gnawed at her belly.

All she could think was that he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Happy belated birthday to my sweet Chip.  How did two years fly by so fast?

I curse you, jelly donuts!

When I was pregnant with Chippy, I got into the rather bad habit of running (driving, actually) down to the bottom of the hill on a pretty regular basis for a jelly donut.  Some mornings I resisted, but usually those little suckers beckoned to me relentlessly.  In retrospect, I should have ignored them, but boy were they good.  I am fairly certain the jelly donuts accounted for at least 50% of the 45+ pounds I gained while pregnant.

Maternity pants are really comfortable, but I am definitely ready to say adios to the elastic.  To take the baked goods analogy a little farther, the bun has been out of the oven for a while now, but the muffin top still remains.

Several weeks ago, I started going for walks with the kids, both for exercise and sanity reasons.  We live in a really hilly area and, as I quickly figured out, pushing two kids in a double stroller up and down semi-mountainous terrain is a great workout.  Not to mention that between scheduled feedings every 2.5 hours, making sure Bobo gets fed, I’ve found I’ve often gotten the short end of the stick (timewise) when it comes to feeding myself.

So, imagine my delight to find the other day that I could fit back into my pre-pregnancy jeans.   With no small amount of finagling, I can even manage to zip them up. 

Sitting while wearing the skinny jeans… well that’s another matter entirely.

Aah, beer. I missed you, my friend.

I discovered a new kind of decadence today.  They have this new lime-flavored Bud Light, and I have to say, I am hooked.  Seriously, it’s the best thing since… well, regular Bud Light.

Living in Portland, the home of the microbrew, I often get strange looks when I go to a pub and order my regular.  I usually skip over the 12 different kinds of locally fermented brews they have on tap and go right to the domestic beer section.  What can I say… I’m a simple girl.

Drinking beer was one of those guilty pleasures I really missed while pregnant.  For me, there’s nothing better than cracking a cold one open after a long day of work and snuggling into bed with a chick flick and some knitting.

Tonight, I had just settled under my comforter, Bud Light Lime in hand, when I hear Chippy’s little wails in the other room.  I had just fed him a little while before, so I knew he wasn’t hungry, but I trotted down the hall anyway to his nursery.

I picked Chip up and started rocking and bouncing him.  The bouncing must have knocked out some gas that was lodged in there; he let out a tremendous belch, and his cries immediately subsided to little whimpers.  “Well, that was easy,” I thought to myself, as I continued to rock him.  I leaned down to give my sweet one a little kiss on the nose, which was when I heard the gurgling.

I have heard of projectile vomiting before, but I had never, thankfully, experienced it firsthand.  They definitely call it “projectile” for a reason; this was not your average urpage.  Unfortunately, my first experience with projectile vomiting was at close range and, even more unfortunately, when my mouth was open.  Fortunately, very little actually got on the baby, which was amazing considering mom’s face was dripping with half-digested breast milk.  All I can say is “Eeew.”

Gagging, I scrambled for the nearest burp cloth to try to sop up my son’s blow.  Meanwhile, Chippy gave a little sigh and snuggled contentedly into my arms, obviously feeling much better.

As he drifted off to sleep in my arms, I thought about my friend Bud waiting for me in the other room.  It sounded pretty good right about now.  Right after I get some mouthwash, that is.

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