I Have Plans For A New Baby At Our House. Don’t Tell Hubs.

So do you know the kind of day where you get up at 5:30 in the morning to make a bottle and get a cup of coffee (Decaff.  Don’t judge me.), and then you shower and DON’T apply Buxom Lips lip gloss to your eyelashes, but use real mascara instead, and then you run hither and yon, and here and there, and back and forth, until you FINALLY make it home, and you realize that FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, BATMAN!  THE FAMILY NOW NEEDS DINNER!, so you text your husband and say, “I am off the cooking wagon.  We are having a one-night break.  Bring home a pizza,” and then you put your pajamas on and realize that LOW!  The clock says 5:45, only you swear the batteries must’ve died, because surely it is almost NAKED TIME (for Thing 2, which is what we call that small space of time before he has a bath) and time for the boy to take a shower of his own and wash off the day’s grime, but no.  It’s really only 5:45, so you just put on your pajamas and make an honest stab at using the electric cork opener on a bottle of wine, only you realize that technology has surpassed you EVEN THERE, so you just resort to the old-fashioned method of digging the cork out with a steak knife.

And there you are.

In your pajamas.  With wine.  And pizza.  And it is 5:45 and you realize that YES!  You have a little bit of evening ahead of you yet, and how shall you spend it?  Because reading sounds great, only Thing 2 is too fussy, and he keeps interrupting all the reading, so you really just have another slice of pizza, smeared with Ranch Dressing, exactly like your nephew taught you to eat it long ago.

And then you realize that you have no blog post for the day, and you begin to wonder whose brilliant idea it was to decide that YES, BATMAN, A BLOG POST FIVE NIGHTS A WEEK WOULD BE A FANTASTIC THING TO DO!, and then your OCD won’t let you drop the five-nights-every-week habit.  And yet tonight… on a pajamas/wine/pizza/5:45 sort of evening, you really don’t think you could possibly invent enough words to catch anyone’s attention without them saying, “Mama is in the hamster wheel again, spinning aimlessly and producing BLAH-NESS and BORING-NESS once more.”

Well that is tonight, people.  Exactly as I have described it.

So I’m just going to tell you this one thing, but don’t tell Hubs, because he doesn’t know yet, and I’m not sure that he’d be completely on board, because between Cat 1 and Cat 2 and all the GRIEF and MADNESS and HELL they bring into our lives, I think Hubs has decided that the Jedi Family Zoo is closed forever, and the cats have merely been grandfathered in because we are responsible pet owners and don’t believe in taking walks along the riverbed with a burlap bag and a big rock.

At least I don’t THINK we believe in that.

Okay, PETA!  We don’t!  We love our vicious/mostly-mentally-slow cats as much as normal people love their normal kitty friends, and I’m rather certain that both Cats 1 and 2 will live to be a ripe old fifty-seven years.

And that’s in the HUMAN variety of years, and not the dog/cat kind, which tends to speed things up drastically.

But this, people, is my next pet.

Tell me that it wouldn’t make your heart jump with happiness and wild abandon to wake up in the morning and say good morning to your pet baby giraffe and give him a little pat on his head and a little rub on that darling nose.

I would name mine Jeffrey.  Or maybe Gordon.  But probably not Flash.  And Jeffrey/Gordon/Not Flash and I would probably go for walks every morning together, and I would say to him, “Well, would you look at that, Gordie.  The wind has blown an empty, plastic Walmart sack into the treetop.  Would you mind getting that with your long neck, so we can be responsible people of the earth and throw it in the trash where it belongs?”

And that’s not entirely true, because I don’t seem to be a responsible person of the earth.  I drive Hubs’ dad plum nuts, because every time I am at their house, he has to ask, “WHO put the glass Izzy soda bottle into the garbage that is the REAL garbage, which is meant for everything that cannot be recycled???”

I have a hard time telling some people’s garbages apart.  I never know if I should throw strawberry tops into the one with all the cardboard in it or not, or whether my plastic water bottle can go into the garbage can with all the egg shells.

Pretty soon Hubs’ dad is going to put two and two together and realize that the only time someone THROWS A GLASS BOTTLE AWAY WITH ZERO INTENT TO RECYCLE IT, I am at their house.

Hopefully by that time, I’ll have Jeffrey/Gordon/Not Flash, and I’ll just say, “It was him.  But don’t you want to pet his cute nose?”

Y’all have a good night.  I think that it’s quite obvious that Mama might actually need a nap right now.

A nap of the eight-hour variety.

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