At times throughout my pregnancy, I considered getting a signboard to wear around my neck with the following information: 1) end of July 2) boy 3) I haven’t told my mother what I’m naming my child, so I’m probably not going to tell you either.
Also, I swear to you, if one more person asks me how I’m feeling, I’m going to start telling the truth. And do you think the truth is pretty? It’s not. (Hint: It’s July, in Norfolk, and I’m carrying around a furnace that displaces my internal organs.)
For the most part, people probably mean well and I should be nicer, but there are two questions that I’ve been asked that make me want to spew fire. So please pay attention—these are my final answers:
1) No, I’m not getting rid of my dogs when the baby is born. I know I can be abrasive, but am I an evil, cold-hearted witch? I’d like to think not. Clyde and Emma are our canine children—our responsibilities—and we love them dearly. When we adopted them, it was for better or for worse—for as long as they live—and what in the world would make me think that it’s OK to go back on that promise? People who give away their animals piss me off. If you’re not prepared to make a 20-year commitment to Fluffy or Fido, don’t bother taking them home in the first place, you selfish jerk.
2) Yes, I’ll be raising my kid on a vegan diet. It’s weird, ’cause no one really questions whether I’ll be taking him to church every Sunday. Hello! Not eating animals is kind of an ethical cornerstone for Giehl and me—you know, because eating animals contributes to horrific cruelty, my own poor health (someday I’ll post fat pictures, but not today), and global warming. Did I mention that I’m carrying a furnace in my belly? Please, for the love of all that’s holy, help lower the planet’s temperature, thanks. It’s a scary world to bring a kid into—the least I can do is ensure that he’s got the moral and spiritual foundations to leave it in a better state than it was when he arrived. Are we clear? Good.