My darling second born son at the tender age of 9 months has fallen in love.
Not with one of the myriad of toys that he currently owns, and not even with one of the many animals who live with us (although the “dooo-gie” and “catty-cat” are close seconds to this), but with a book.
Now, it could be worse, he could be obsessed with one of the many boring computer books we have knocking around the house, but what cracks me up most about this is that when he first fell in love with it, I explained to him that there were 6 fingers on the hand of the book.
Rather than take the word “hand,” “book,” or even the very complicated “fingers” away from this, he now cries “thhhix” whenever he wants the book.
It’s going to be a loud 18 years.
Later that day, as he was rolling merrily along the floor, behaving like a human vacuum cleaner, I noticed that he was decidedly chewing on something. I figured it was likely a tasty bit of paper or a goldfish cracker, until I realized that he was gagging on it.
I swooped in, picked him up and peered into his mouth. He took this opportunity to regurgitate most of his lunch in a large splat onto the white (white!) carpeting, and it was then that I found the elusive culprit: a rabbit turd.
Now, back when I was eleventy-million months pregnant, Ben and I were perusing our local pet store after picking up some crickets for our gecko and while he tried to persuade me to buy him a scorpion (yeah, right. Over my dead and crusty body will I ever, EVER allow a scorpion to come into my home. You might say that I have a phobia.), I spotted her.
A large bunny was hopping merrily around a cage, desperately vying for my attention. I’ve always liked bunnies, and secretly lusted for one for, oh I don’t know, EVER, but every one I’ve ever seen is just languidly laying around a cage looking boring.
This one, however ugly she may be (and she is), was not boring. She was cute, and she liked me.
In a fit of pregnancy-induced insanity (and probably because my husband was too fearful of me to deny me), we adopted her (she had been dropped off by previous owners who didn’t want to care for her any longer).
Now, aside from knowing that they were fluffy and liked carrots, I had no idea what the hell owning a bunny was about. For instance, I had no idea that their pee smelled like death. Or that they would kick their litter and poo out of the cage when they jumped about. Had I known this, I might not have been so keen on adopting her.
But she’s cute as hell (in a really ugly way) and she loves me to pieces, so I don’t give her much grief for being a damned slob.
That said, when Alex was deciding to snack on a bit of “bunny chocolate,” I was horrified not that he had done this, or that she had kicked the poo piece out of her cage. I was mad simply because I had JUST vacuumed.
Ginger (not the name I would have chosen, but same as my darling cat Peekachoo, she came with it, and answers to it) says that she would very much like some treats, please, as you can see by her massive proportions (again, with the scale on a webpage, you may not get an accurate picture of her massiveness), WE DO NOT FEED HER ENOUGH.
Lastly, this is a photo of the aftermath of the “bunny chocolate” saga. A bath. With bubbles. And a baby that we call “Tons of Fun” and “Chubbs.”
You know, because he’s skinny.