the poopy menagerie

Each time we add to the Babe's government document collection it hits home just a little more that Adoring and Wonderful Husband and I actually made a real person together. Boh's new health card, which came in an envelope addressed directly to him, reaffirmed his status as one of Canada's newest taxpayers. So did the recent Census exercise. Question: How many people live in your residence? Answer: Three. Oh. My. God. Three. How did Justin and I go from living in sin just five short years ago to this, an arrangement it would likely take years for lawyers to neatly untangle were we ever to part ways. (You hear that sweetie? I said years.)

When Justin and I first got married, people used to ask if things were really that different after the exchanging of the vows. Yes, we'd answer, undoubtedly. Because whereas if we had a fight before, we always had the option of adding a bit of drama to it by throwing each other's clothes onto the front lawn. The neighbours response to this? "Tsk, tsk! Those kids!" After you get married if you throw each other's undies on the turf out front nosy Mrs. Henderson from down the street calls up Mertle from across the way immediately to talk about the fight those young marrieds just had that is obviously going to result in them going to the big D, and I don't mean Dallas. Now? Throw a baby on the lawn in the middle of a fight and I'm pretty sure Child Protection Services would be at the door before you could say "I'm bored with this fight, let's have a cookie." (At least I hope so.) And it's not just the Babe we've added to our little collection of dependents, either. There is a dog and three cats. And they're healthy too, so they're not going anywhere anytime soon.

Where am I going with all this? Having a dog and three cats and a baby that's soon going to learn to crawl all living in the same house together means I will shortly have to start cleaning the floors each and every day. And with all the fur and dirty paws, it's going to be down on your hands and knees scrubbing the floor type work too, lest the Babe have the "I just played in the mud and pooped my pants" look going all the time. (You know the look? It's the "I'm so dirty you can just tell my mom neglects me" look.) Now, I can take the midnight feedings and the fact that, after being wedged beneath my lungs for the last nine months, my bowels will never be the same again. But having to clean the floors everyday? That's just taking things way too far.