A person can forget

Yesterday I forgot for hours at a time that I am pregnant. When I mentioned this to my husband at bedtime, he said in minor horror, "What did you do?" As though he imagined me kicking back shots or changing cat litter or some other such unthinkable thing, pregnant or not.

I didn't actually do anything harmful or neglectful. I just forgot. Until my lunch fell on the growing shelf that is my tummy, that is.

Hey. I'm a busy mom. The girls had a big history project followed by a lot of Elmer's glue going on, and Laura was supposedly stacking cans in the pantry but was actually making cocoa angels on the floor. This led, predictably, to some extra laundry. We lost our rooster (may he rest in peace) and one of the new Araucana pullets to a cursed (I really mean that) neighbor dog. I had approximately ten thousand different activity slips to enter in order for my husband's invoicing to get out on time. Data entry is my favorite, let me assure you. My father-in-law stopped by and I overcooked the pasta. The phone rang about seventeen different times. I considered unplugging it but once it was a reminder from the electricity company so I thought better of ignoring incoming messages. Thank goodness for reminders. A person can forget, did I mention?

Then the baby would kick in that second-trimester "I've got the whole world to turn somersaults in" way and I'd say, WOW, there's going to be a seventh Suite sooner than later. Wow.



When Dixie found this scrap of sheepskin she claimed it as hers. Sometimes it's a playmate, sometimes it's her cuddle partner and sometimes it's her doomed prey. She essentially treats us the same way. She doesn't forget. She just chooses her moments. A little like I do.