Monday, February 14, 2011
I was recently told by two people that my life looks idyllic online. That helped me realize what a narcissist I am via social media.
Of course I only put cute pictures of my daughter and myself up, photos that I think capture the happy or interesting moments of my life.
But things are not always so rosy.
A)Boogers. Frasier has re-discovered her nose.
The above picture was my attempt at sending the Dogtor a don’t-you-miss-your-cute-girls glamor shot via text while he was away on a well-deserved ski trip in Colorado this weekend. I pulled up the picture thinking it was awesome and…photobomb. (Sorry to sell you out, Fray.)
B) Poop. While the Dogtor was gone, my parents came to VT to visit and give very-pregnant me some support. Now, if you ever want to sell the my-life-is-pretty routine, it’s when your parents come to visit.
First, roofs and the sides of roads are covered in huge piles of snow, and my parents don't like the cold. Next, even though I vacuumed twice before my parents came in the door, it still looks like I live in a mountain of animal hair. (I do. Four cats and four dogs inside during a winter like this…sigh. Dyson tries hard, though.)
After breakfast on Saturday, I decided to take my dad, Pop Pop, on a snow shoe. Fray is going through separation anxiety, so I began subtly gathering our gear for a smooth escape, in hopes that I might leave things easy for Rhombus (Grandma).
Note – there is no subtle way for a pregnant lady to put on hiking boots and gaiters. It isn’t pretty. There is grunting involved. Then I fell off the side porch into a snow bank trying to retrieve ski poles for Pop Pop and had to change pants. Repeat gaiter/hiking boots. Needless to say, Frasier noticed I was leaving.
Me: Frasier – let’s go change your diaper. (before I leave and you unleash hell upon poor Rhombus).
Me: Manners, please. No thank you.
Frasier: No thank you. Nemo poop.
Me: You pooped? Ready to go get a new diaper?
Frasier: NEMO POOP.
Me: (looks over to see Nemo, our old, incontinent lab mix, pooping-while-walking across the kitchen floor. Phone rings. Tea kettle screams.)
Frasier: NEMO POOP! (accidentally steps in Nemo poop with one pink John Deere cowboy boot.)
Rhombus and Pop Pop: (politely panicked faces)
C) Toddlerdom. Frasier refused to nap yesterday and spent twenty minutes screaming NO at the top of her lungs in a voice that sounded more aggressive than any heavy metal front person you’ve ever heard. Ever. I could hear my parents downstairs laughing. As in – bwahahaha Megan totally had this coming.
Rhombus: I saw on the news that there are roofs caving in because of the snow in Vermont. Do we have to worry about roofs caving in here?
Me: Well…(Change subject! Change subject! Change subject!)
E) Dog Fights/More Poop: I wished my parents a good night yesterday evening and walked them out the door to the little cabin behind our house. I had a cat on my shoulder (the one who sleeps in the old clinic for now to avoid cat fights) and was walking the four dogs. It was pitch black with a little moon, snow everywhere. Rhombus and Pop Pop entered the sweet little cabin.
Suddenly drama erupts – Monsieur Scooty Beags and Pippa the Corgi are literally trying to kill each other over a piece of frozen poop. (Poopcicle?) They are savagely wrestling and biting and dog-screaming. I pregnant-waddle-run over to them across the icy sidewalk with a large, one-eyed cat on my shoulder.
My dad sweetly calls from the cabin: Megan, are you okay?
I’m okay. Totally okay. Nothing weird going on here.
And that’s the truth. Broken chicken egg in a coat pocket? Loose goat? Medicated cat squawking underneath an antique desk and biting its own tail? Infuriated toddler telling everyone who will listen that Mama broke her bike? (I did. Whoops.)
All that used to be weird is now…the usual. And not always pretty, in case I've led you to believe otherwise.