There’s one cat on top of the fridge. Crying. A puppy on the ground. Also crying. Another cat somewhere nearby just hissing for the hell of it. Welcome to my 4×6-foot kitchen. I just want lunch. Please, God. Lunch.
I’m looking at new mothers with a whole new level of respect over here. I bet you love me comparing your baby to a puppy, don’t you? Love me over dramatizing my 72-hour experience with a small animal. Love that I will trivialize the immensity of motherhood by comparing it to one weekend with a black lab. Throw me a bone (dog joke!) it’s all I’ve got to work with.
So yes. With this puppy, I am humbled.
You know the only thing that has shut him up and calmed him down in the last two days? Celery. Correct, celery.
When it rolled off the cutting board, perhaps he confused it for an animal part of some sort. But I assume it was really the novelty of seeing a vegetable for the first time (my brother does not consume produce). Whatever the reason, it kept him pleasantly distracted just long enough for me to craft a towering salad masterpiece and shove it in my face.
You know what I want to do today? I want to bake a billion things. I want to get a pedicure. I want to memorize a whole lot of sanskrit. I want to go to three yoga classes. I want to ride my bike. I want to clean my house. I want to do my laundry. Instead? I am feeling trapped (quite literally caged) in my little apartment.
This is the most effective birth control I have taken in my life and the surest way to remind one as dead set on rushing towards stability as myself that maybe, just maybe a little free-wheeling, spontaneous, irresponsible, selfish time in my mid-twenties is a right fine place to be.