And so it begins

I feel like barfing most of the time. I have to pee constantly. I have super hound dog smell. And I'm all bloated. I think I could be pregnant!

I guess I should hush; the only time I didn't have these symptoms, I miscarried. And as much as this baby wasn't planned, we want it. It just sucks knowing the exact moment the cat peed in the litterbox five rooms away, that's all.

Nubbins!

Last Tuesday, I got up, got the kids breakfast and one off to school, and came back home to start to clean up for the day. I got to the the kitchen, and while stooped over to grab some toy, I noticed streaks of blood on the linoleum. I knew that if it had been from either one of the kids, I would've been notified immediately. My heart sank as I realized it was probably one of my cats, Scout or Boo. Boo's an indestructible shit, but my mild and meek Scouters is eight years old. Since she still doesn't know her name is Scout, I kissed for her, and she came out from under the couch.

I tried not to cry. She's snow white, and I could see the blood on her tail as soon as she popped out. When I got ahold of her, I saw her tail looked like someone had tried to pull her skin and hair off her tail like a sock. The skin was just hanging there in a bloody mess.

So, to cut to the chase, we humans are out $295 and Scout's out about three inches of tail. The vet said they could try to just stitch the skin, but that she'd worry it'd die and/or get infected. We have no earthly idea how it happened. The vet said she didn't think it looked like another cat, so Boo's cleared. I've questioned and questioned the boychild, and I really believe he has no earthly idea either. I did a thorough search of the house for clumps of hair and gore, and nothing. I'm just hoping it was a fluke and doesn't happen again.

For viewing pleasure, here's our cat despising all humans:

We tried leaving the e-collar off, but she promptly tried to chew on her tail and then cry out in pain. We take it off once a day for a break and for her to furiously bathe.

And finally, here's her poor ratty, nubbin tail. I try not to shudder if it brushes against me:

Tips on how not to be an asshole

Really. No one thinks you're cool when you order your tall latte nonfat, with 13.5 pumps of vanilla syrup, 180°, no foam, extra whipped cream in a grande cup. People think you're a pain-in-the-neck asshole. And just how many lattes did you have to drink to come up with that perfect combo to annoy people with? Does your world end if you get only 12 pumps? I'll give you a couple of changes per drink. Like two. Like nonfat and extra hot. But get over yourself on the other stuff.

And for the love of all things holy, do not complain that we fill the cups too full. Because I know you'd be the same jerk to complain that we didn't fill the cups enough. We try to give you the best deal for your dollar. It's not our fault that you're not smart enough to drink a hot beverage without spilling it all over yourself.

When ordering at the drive-through, never mumble. Ever. Speak slowly and clearly, and face the freaking speaker. Don't order while staring at the glovebox, because we'll have you repeat your order nine times until we understand that it's exactly 13.5 pumps of vanilla syrup you want.

I'd never call it an "accident."

Have you ever been very asleep with your spouse and then sometime in the middle of the night, someone molests the other and that turns into crazy, unconscious sex? The kind of sex you don't really wake up for until it's over? That happened to us approximately three weeks ago. And that crazy, unconscious, but still really fun romp turned into three very positive home pregnancy tests. Surprise! And that's what I'll call it from now on: Surprise! It sounds so much better than Accident!

I think that this being the third and all, we're stepping into minivan territory. I really can't describe how bad I hate minivans. They scream Soccer Mom! Bad hair! Really large ass! And while two of those definitely describe me, I don't wanna announce to just everyone. My dad insists that minivan is the way to go, especially with three kids, and hey, don't you know what causes that? but he doesn't know everything.

The perks are few and far between

One of the best parts of having children is that they're convinced that the sun rises and sets out of your ass. Case in point: My five-year-old runs up to me and says, "What's two plus three?" today. I tell him the answer, and he immediately checks on his calculator.

"Wow, Mom! You're right! It is five!"

I try not to be offended that he double checks me, but I figure this gets worse as they age. I bet he doesn't think I'm nearly as cool when he's fifteen with pimples trying to hook-up with the girl down the street. I'm still going to try to shock and awe him for as long as possible.

And the seven-month-old girlchild? All I really have to do now is walk into the room, man. Her face lights up like I'm the best thing she's ever seen in her life. It's almost too easy. I'm pretty sure she thinks we're best friends, but once again, I bet she doesn't think that at say, twelve, right on the cusp of puberty.

But for now, I'm going to enjoy this sunshine out of the butt thing. Sometimes it's the only thing parenting has going for it.

About

Howdy. I'm Kelly.

I've been married to the husband for freakin' ever eleven years. We live in Indiana with our three offspring: nine-year-old Big D, four-year-old Smella, and two-year-old Boobers. We have a little terrier named Ferdinand, and I occasionally run into a cat that stalks this house. If I remember correctly, we named her Scout.

I stay at home with the offspring during the day, but at night I schlep myself into work at a coffee shop where I make frou-frou espresso drinks for people. Oh, and since I'm supervisor, I try to keep the two or three other co-workers in line. Like at home, I'm mostly listened to.

However lovely it is burning my hands daily with steaming hot coffee, I'm back in school to become a labor and delivery nurse. I think birthing goo will be a nice change of pace. The thought terrifies me, and sometimes I just know I will bomb, but I'm still giving it a go. What's a little more student loan debt?

I love Ben Folds, Diet Coke, freshly shampooed baby head, and my tubal ligation. I hate hypocrisy, eating spaghetti in public, and snow.

You can contact me at notinsaneperse at gmail dot com. I do adore email.

Welcome to my website.