Driving Miss Molly

Molly is the West Highland Terrier I live with. Molly is a baffling mixture of well-trained dog crossed with mentally defunct toddler. Her level of training depends entirely upon her mood, the perceived prize, and the consequence. If the perceived prize outweighs the known consequence, Molly has no issues with going for the gold. Unfortunately, it is nearly impossible to determine what she sees as worth it because it isn't a fixed goal - it greatly differs depending on the day. What you're left with is a fairly unpredictable, fluffy, sweet yet determined terrier that is the best dog you've ever had and yet the worst dog you've ever known.

I'm aware that not everyone can handle my dog. I think my mother lives in fear that something might happen to us and she'll be left caring for our dog. We don't leave Molly with friends when we go out of town, we pay professionals at a kennel to anticipate her every need. We take precautions when going out and leaving our pet at home, the usual like taking her collar off so she doesn't accidentally hang herself on anything, and then the unusual of pulling the sofa away from the wall so she can't use it to climb to the windowsill and push out the air-conditioning unit and plummet to her death outside while trying to chase a squirrel on a neighbouring rooftop.

There are some days when I wish I could show everyone how lovely Molly can be - like when I pat the couch beside me and she hops up, curls up next to me and calmly nuzzles my hand for a pat. Or when the baby is on the floor rolling about and Molly sweetly checks on her every few minutes. And I wish they could see her funny habits, like when we're driving in the car and she sits perfectly still on her seat, staring forward and never jumping on me, only popping up at red lights to look into the car next to ours and then quickly popping back down to sit again the second we start moving. I don't know why these times are only small gifts reserved just for me. Molly's good behaviour has become the Mr. Snuffleupagus in my life.

Instead, most outings end up like earlier last week when I took Molly to the groomer and she shit on the floor in front of everyone while still attached to the end of her leash so I couldn't even pretend she wasn't mine. Her nickname at the groomer is Noodles. I can't begin to imagine what she did to earn that title.

Other star-power moments include when she meets someone new and wees a bit from excitement. Or when she meets someone she's already met many times before and wees a bit from excitement. Or when someone leaves the room and comes back and she wees a bit from excitement. Sometimes she just wees a bit...and isn't even excited.

I didn't know how Molly was going to adjust to the new baby. I was worried about jealousy, but quite the opposite has happened. Like all other members of my family, Molly greets Charlie in the morning and when we come home from an outing. Afternoons are usually spent on the couch nursing and cuddling Charlie with Molly squashed against my free side, having a snooze. I bring the baby into bed with me in the early morning for an extra hour of sleep, and Molly curls up with us and sleeps as well. When Charlie is rolling and playing on the floor Molly lays near her.

And when Charlie vomits, and I'm not fast enough, Molly eats it.

Raindrops on Roses and Breastpads on Kittens

Another gap in the blogging timeline. That's okay, you would have preferred it - getting to my ninth month of pregnancy and going seriously overdue did nothing for my personality. I did attempt a few posts which ended up being weird, distracted and half-hearted attempts at being funny/entertaining, but decided against inflicting them upon you all. They remain in my drafts bin, floating around like the soulless, paper-thin beings that they are.

Nearly nine weeks ago Charlotte (Charlie) was finally born. I was quite overdue and had stopped checking my facebook page and answering my cell. Everyday I was reminded that I was overdue, and every night I went to bed disappointed and convinced I was experiencing some sort of uterine failure. I had dreams of being pregnant forever, dreams where I actually wasn't pregnant but had a parasite that mimicked pregnancy, and even a dream in which I did have my baby but was too stupid to realise it.

See? I spared you all in just withdrawing from everything. I couldn't even stand myself towards the end.

I started to get desperate. My midwife gave me a labour cocktail consisting of disgusting things that smelled like peanut butter and furniture polish but I had to swallow it down twice to realise it didn't work. I had my membranes stripped, not once but twice. If you want to know what that feels like, get someone to punch you in the vag. Finally I tried acupuncture, which worked in starting labour an hour later. Charlie was born at home at 5:02am on July 6. No one has slept since.

That part isn't true, technically Graham has gotten a lot of sleep. Charlie prefers to sleep in the car, the catch being that I have to drive it and remain awake. I'm learning how to function on little sleep - at the very least, no one has any expectations of me at the moment. I can't remember anything at the grocery store, and spend my time aimlessly wandering the aisles and eventually leaving with nothing but butter and cookies and having to go back the next day...and leaving with butter and cookies again. I can't retain information and have attempted to price out diapers, but forget the price of the ones I'm trying to compare the second they are out of my line of vision. I'm usually quite good at prioritising, but that has gone down the shitter as well. I try to cut corners to get more rest, but cut the stupid corners - I can't leave a dish unwashed for a few hours, but for whatever reason I rationalise not putting down a change pad to "save time" and end up with an infant that has pissed and shit all over my duvet while I race to shove another diaper under her.

I'm not forgetting about romance, though. Just yesterday I crawled into bed to wake Graham up, waggling my breast pump in front of him to proudly show off the 3 ounces of breast milk I managed to squeeze out of my poor, overused boobs. This morning I passed him a diaper, proudly exclaiming "Feel how heavy it is! She's getting so much to eat!" not realising that the pride and joy I experience every time Charlie fills a diaper, which is testimony to her feeding well and everything going smoothly, doesn't register with Graham the way it does with me. For me, a full diaper is a sign of health, hydration and happy baby. For Graham, it's a crap basket. Each of his weary nods is met with fury from me, stomping, and exclamations of "WHY CAN'T YOU BE HAPPY WITH HOW MUCH OUR DAUGHTER IS PISSING AND SHITTING???" and sobs as he tiptoes out of the room and makes a phone call.

But it has been quite lovely. Charlie, more and more everyday, is beginning to resemble a snugly, happy and bright-eyed baby and less of the screaming milk-vampire. She's even graciously allowed me this time to blog, although I'm apparently taking too long and she's shoved her giraffe in her mouth in a greedy fashion, attempting to make me jealous of their new relationship.