The Taming of the Poo

Gather round, kiddies. Put on your warmest pyjamas, grab your blankets, and settle in to hear a story that will make your blood run cold, your soul cry fat tears, and your skin crawl. This tale is not for the squeamish, the proper, or the young. Hold onto each other. You'll never be the same inside.

This post comes with a big-assed warning. If you have a weak stomach, turn away. I'll mock you because I'm over 7 months pregnant and I could handle it, but sometimes being a pussy is better than being mentally scarred. Sometimes.

Wednesday was a regular day. The sun was out, the temperature was rising, my coffee was made...all was right in the world. Work was good, busy but not overwhelming, and I saw my first robin of the year. A man wearing a work vest came into our clinic and asked to use the washroom - I said sure, feeling sympathy for a worker that spends his day in a truck going from site to site where there aren't always functioning toilets. On the radio was my favourite station, Fab 94.3 with hits from the 60s and 70s, and I was bopping around and whistling, and letting the sun shine in.

I completely forgot about the man in the washroom until he ran out 10 minutes later. It slightly irritated me that he never said thank you, but was too busy now bopping along to Son of a Preacher Man and having dirty catholic-tainted fantasies to really mind.

Until a smell hit me.

A bad smell.

A very, very bad smell.

My boss noticed it as well, but he went to investigate while I was content to just sit at my desk and write off the bad smell to just being overly-sensitive. He came up to my desk and asked who the guy was that used the washroom, and I told him some guy in a work vest - maybe a construction worker nearby, and asked if he had left the washroom in a mess. My boss was wide-eyed and stunned, but simply answered yes. I didn't go look, I was fuming that I allowed the worker to use the washroom and he left a stink and didn't even thank us for the privilege of leaving a stink. I ran outside, intending to walk to the work site and yell at him in front of his coworkers for being raised in a barn. There was no one outside, but our clinic is next to a gas station so I decided to pop in there and see if anyone working there had seen this man. The girl was more than courteous, providing me with his employer and information about his work truck.

I went back to our clinic, where my boss was standing by my desk looking shell-shocked. I told him I knew the worker and his employer, a very prominent employer, and would file a complaint. My boss just kept shaking his head. I told him it would be fine, I had some cleaner, I'd go tidy up the smell and clean the bowl.

Boss: No, Carole. I'll need to get gloves, and more cleaner, and a mop, and possibly other things.

Me: We have gloves, I'll grab them from one of the rooms.

Boss: No, Carole. You'll need gloves up to your elbows.

Me: (laughing) It can't be that bad?

Boss: Go look.

So I went and looked. At first it didn't really register with me exactly what had happened. Our bathroom looked muddy, like a car station washroom. There was mud on the floor, the walls, the toilet, the sink, the garbage can...mud swirled around with footprints in it, smeared everywhere. Was he muddy? I didn't see any mud on him. And then I realized I wasn't look at mud.

I was looking at poo.

Poo was everywhere. He had painted my washroom, my clean girly washroom with the towel dispenser, tea tree oil soap, and baby changing station entirely with poo.

I've read about the five stages of grief. I've never gone through them in the space of three minutes before, and I never would have found it possible, but I did. There was denial:

No, no. This is mud, not poo. Who would do this with poo? There's obviously been some sort of mistake. He's coming back to clean this. Surely. Anytime now.

Then came anger:

What the FUCK is wrong with that guy? I let him use the washroom! This is social injustice. How could he repay my kindness in this way?? I'm calling his employer and lodging a complaint. I'm going to embarrass the shit out of him - not that there's any left.

Next was bargaining:

We can't clean this. This cannot be cleaned. We need an old priest, and a young priest, and then we need the cleansing power of fire. Yes, we will just burn the place down. We will work in a trailer in the parking lot until our clinic is rebuilt, and that's just what we're going to have to do. Yeah, we'll do that. Okay? Please?

And then depression:

I just want to go home, crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head and wake up on Saturday.

Finally, acceptance:

It's poo. I have to clean it. Just give me the fucking gloves, pail, mop and cleaner and stay out of my way.


It took me almost 40 minutes. At first there was gagging, and the awful realisation that if I did throw up in the toilet some of it could splash back onto me - so I had to run outside a few times until the need to vomit passed. But after awhile came this really odd pride - who else could do this? Really? I'm fucking hardcore. I'm cleaning this, and I'm not throwing up. I'm not happy, but I'm not crying. I'm 7 months pregnant and scooping poo up off of a floor. I'm the hardest woman alive.

I finally finished cleaning, the bathroom restored to its former glory. It smelled clean, and looked clean, with no trace of the shit demon from Dogma that climbed out of the toilet and stropped around nearly an hour before. I threw out everything, and text my boss that we needed a new toilet brush as it could not be saved. I carried the bag to the dumpster outside, ran to my car, went home and threw off all my clothes and stood in the shower for 30 minutes, scrubbing and finally crying a bit. The clothes went into the wash, and I exfoliated every inch of myself, desperate for new skin that wasn't exposed to poo.

Shiny, clean and pink I did return to work that afternoon (I'm hard!) to find my boss had flowers delivered for me, as well as a huge gift card for a very expensive restaurant as a thank you. I was stunned, and spent most of the afternoon just shaking my head slowly, gazing into the distance, much like a soldier back from war and unable to describe the atrocities seen. My boss and I knew what had happened, the devastation and eventual rebirth of the clean washroom bringing us closer together. We were there. We saw. And we made it back.

Things that go bump in the night, and then eat my brains.

I'm terrified of the dark. Actually, I'm terrified of a lot of things. I had a very over-active imagination as a child. Basements horrified me, giving me recurring nightmares where I was stranded in a basement for no apparent reason, with a door behind me that was going to open at any second and reveal the creature behind it. I would scream for help, and the tiniest squeak would come out. My movements became futile, I moved as if underwater. Unable to scream, unable to move, and then the door would start to open...And in it was the guy from the Micheal Jackson video Thriller. He scared the living shit right out of me, the guy that does the talking at the end and then the maniacal laughing. I still hate that song.

Another nightmare was full of dinosaurs. Some were my allies, some wanted to eat me. My friendly dinosaurs were apathetic and useless, fat cartoony things that sat around eating pizza while I begged for their help, running around corners and hiding under tables trying to get away from the much slimmer and meaner carnivorous dinosaurs.

Fighting in dreams was also an exercise in futility, my arms turning into noodles and having the physical impact of a marshmallow. Once I had to beat a man to death in a dream with a vacuum cleaner, and it took me ages of lifting it and slightly dropping it on his face.

I'm not sure what it is about the dark that scares me so much, or even how it started. I remember eavesdropping on my mother one night talking with a friend about Stephen King's book IT, but not knowing it was an actual book - I thought it was a news story, and spent the rest of the night unable to go to the toilet thinking a clown was going to rip my arms off. I was in physical agony, but at least my arms were still on.

As an adult I still scare quite easily. I've given up on watching horror movies, but am naturally curious so still want to know what happens. The Ring took a good few years off of my life, I think, and it was after that movie I decided to stop watching them for curiosity's sake and just read the synopsis for each one on wikipedia. This way at least I know what happens without having to leave the lights on in the hallway at night for three months, or having a nervous breakdown one night when the bathroom floods without me realizing and I step in an inch of cold water on the floor. Graham learned the hard way, he thought it would be hilarious to show me a video about a Swedish car commercial where the person in a hideous mask jumps out at you at the end - he told me to lean forward really close and turn the sound up, and the resulting hysterical and sobbing/screaming woman who refused to go back into the computer room of the house was enough that he's never done anything like that since.

I wonder what age I'll be when I no longer run up basement steps, convinced something is chasing me? Or how many decades I have ahead of me checking behind the shower curtain every time I go to the washroom? Does it keep me young, or have my fears prematurely aged me? And what the HELL is that noise in the closet?!

The Ex Factor

I routinely, nearly habitually, embarrass myself. Whether it is from my astounding lack of knowledge of world geography ("Doesn't Britain connect at the top to the rest of Europe, though?"), physics ("I thought bendy buses had that accordion bend in them to stretch out and fit more people during rush hour?"), or just general failure of social etiquette ("Thanks for your condolences about my bird. Sorry about your grandpa passing away!) making an ass out of myself happens on a near-weekly basis.

A few months ago I was at an appointment, and trying to navigate the busy parking lot. The clinic I attend hires mentally disabled adults to help out with regular building management duties, and this day they had strapped on a neon vest to one of their workers and sent him outside to direct traffic in the parking lot. He kept trying to direct me into the last stall, a blue handicapped space. I shook my head, pointed at the sign, and he kept pointing at the stall and gesturing for me to park there. I got out, and said "I'm not handicapped, I cannot park there" - but it was a busy place, and he couldn't hear me. I shouted "I'm not handicapped!" over and over as he kept gesturing for me to move my vehicle in the stall. On the fourth or fifth shouting of "I'm not handicapped!" I looked around and realized people were watching. Yes, people were watching the blond bitch with the Pontiac shout at an adult man with Downs syndrome that she wasn't handicapped, over and over and over again. I left in shame. I figured that embarrassment would be enough for the next year or so.

I am divorced and remarried. I divorced in 2005, we get along not too badly - regular ex stuff, I suppose. There's no baby's mama issues or anything. Receiving a text from my ex isn't out of the norm entirely, we share Matthew and need to confirm schedules and pick-up times and such. The text I received yesterday simply said "I think you called me and didn't mean to" which was a bit strange. I saw he had also called, and left a message on the home phone for me give him a call back. I gave him a phone at work -

W: Hey, did you get a new phone?

Me: Yeah, I'm still figuring out how it works. How did you know I got a new phone?

W: My buddy Jim has a blackberry and he keeps ghostdialing me, and you ghostdialed me.

Me: Oh. Sorry for ghostdialing you?

W: Do you know what ghostdialing is?

Me: Nope.

W: It's when your phone gets bumped and calls someone, and they can hear everything you're doing.

Me: Oh.

W: Everything. You. Are. Doing.

Me: I wasn't doing anything, I was driving back into town listening to music.

W: Everything.

Me: I was just listening to music. Oh, and singing a bit I guess.

W: Yes, you were singing.

Me: Ugh, you heard me singing?

W: Carole, you left an entire message of you singing Two Out Of Three Ain't Bad at the top of your lungs on voicemail.



Oh holy hell. Oh holy, holy hell.



Me: That didn't mean anything, I swear to God. That wasn't for you. I was just in the mood for MeatLoaf. Really, I wasn't 70's rock-ballading you.

W: I know. I figured you got a new phone. You should learn how to lock it.

Me: I can lock it?!

W: Please lock it.

Me: I'll google it.

So, yeah. If you're having a bad day, please consider that at least you didn't rock out to a 70's MeatLoaf ballad on your ex-husband's voicemail.

Thingamaknobbers and Fuckamagadgets

I'm not big on technology. Well, that's not entirely true - I love technology, and would never be without it. I'd cry if I didn't have access to running water, a hair dryer and straightener, my car, and everything else that helps me along in the average day. I guess I have Apathetic Doodad Syndrome, in that I never use technological devices to their fullest potential. I have an iPod Classic and it has one playlist on it. A really big and long playlist because sorting my music is too much hassle. I have this laptop that I quite enjoy, but admittedly only use for squeaking around on the internet. I bought my husband a DVR as a gift, not realizing it wasn't compatible with my really old television...I still don't know how to use the recording option on it. I got my first cell phone in 2006, finally pushed into it by my husband because his favourite mode of communication is texting. Until then I had been cellphone-free (not less, but FREE) and quite happy about it.

My first cell was a Sony Ericsson, a cheery little number that was also a combination MP3 player. I never used the MP3 player, it didn't have a single song downloaded onto it except for my beloved Ghostbusters ringtone that no one seemed to appreciate for some reason. It came with a contract and the absolute promise that it would work out at my parents' place in Ontario. I quickly found out my little phone would work in Glasgow, Amsterdam, Philadelphia, Toronto, Chicago, London and Minneapolis but not 6 hours away at my parents' house. This annoyed me beyond reason and my phone became a thorn in my side. It quickly fell out of favour, and aside from having to fill my contractual obligations I had very little use for it.

Then my dog ate it (picture of dog included). Thankfully the SIM card was intact, so I bought another little phone from Winnipeg Buy and Sell that would utilise my SIM card and used that until my contract ran out. I dropped it a few weeks later, cracking the faceplate, and put the only sticky thing I could find on it - a Curious George bandaid (it did match in its own way). It wasn't pretty, but it worked. It slips into German predictive text on occasion, I can't use the calendar because it reverts back to 2003 all by itself, the ringtones reset themselves so I never know that it's my cell ringing in a public place, and it isn't internet capable. But it can text sometimes, and call people other times, so it met my simple needs.

Eventually my contract ran out and the freedom I was looking for became a sudden mental prison - I could go out and get a new contract and phone, but God what should I get? I didn't want anything. Phones were bigger now, and silly colours, and had eight versions of themselves. The choice was daunting, overwhelming, and I couldn't trust the liars at the phone desk to sell me what I needed. The wound from my first phone was still open and raw. I kept a no contract phone for 2 years longer than I needed to because of indecision. And laziness.

I knew I didn't want an iPhone. I can't handle one without wiping my sleeve on it, trying to rid it of fingerprints, and they aren't even my phones. I needed something classic, nice-looking but functional, slim but not James Bond, with a bigger screen that I can actually see. I finally found her, a BlackBerry Curve 3G in Smokey Violet. She's lovely, understated, light but sturdy. She spoke to me the second I saw her. I won't lie, she's a complicated lady - but I know we'll have years and years together that I can spend figuring her out because I'm just loyal that way. And lazy.

Dream a Messed Up Little Dream of Me

When I was younger, I had that dream many people have. I'd be sitting in school trying to focus on a lecture with no pants on. We have all had that dream, whether we were at school with no pants on, at work with no pants on, at a party with no pants on, or at a funeral with no pants on. It binds us together as humans. As I've gotten older that dream has morphed into various forms - I've shown up to a meeting in dreamland with no shirt on, the Oscars with no push-up strapless bra on, and even the grocery store with no pants or shirt on. It changed into deeper and more complicated levels of social embarrassment and despair, like when I dreamed I had my son but he was a watermelon - and instead of having a smiley, lovey baby at my mothering group like all the other mothers I had a listless watermelon that started to rot a bit where I had dropped him and dented his fruity head. People judged me for not loving my watermelon as I should, so I was left to feign love and admiration for my watermelon in public...while crying and sobbing over my smelly watermelon behind closed doors. Last night, however, was by far the worst public humiliation my subconscious has inflicted upon me.

It started out as a regular dream, aside from us living in an absolute shack with five half-dressed and dirty children wandering around in filth and poverty. Ok, in my dream it was obvious we were poor - dirt poor. I wandered out of our bedroom and my husband (still Graham...not one of those dream husbands you get to borrow for an evening that your brain tried on during the week without you noticing and squirreled away for material later on) looked relieved and annoyed, while juggling what looked like our youngest spawn. Apparently I had been depressed in my dream, and spent two weeks in my bed sleeping and this was the first he had seen me in all of that time. I asked him what he'd been feeding the children, and he burst into tears and said Chicken Pie from the factory across the road. I took the half-dressed, filthy baby from him and apologised for my absence, and vowed to be a better wife/mother/dream person. First things first, though, I had to take a massive piss.

I can confidently pee in dreams without pissing myself in real life. This wasn't always the case, but the inevitable accidents that would happen in childhood when I tried it eventually turned into hit-and-miss attempts as I grew older, and now I can successfully pee in a dream with no real-life consequences. It's a skill I should put on resumes, I know.

I wandered around our small cabin/shack/house and found two toilets. One had a door on it, but was closed off with Police tape cautioning me not to go in. Graham let me know he had plugged that toilet up, and it couldn't be used. Great. Left to be used was a toilet with not only no door (Graham had burned it for heat for our little ones) but completely encased in see-through plastic. In my desperation, I had to use it. No sooner did I sit down than my entire extended family walked into our house for some type of reunion/party dig directly in front of my toilet. I had aunts slowly walking by, uncles, cousins, my grandfather even did a painfully slow looky-loo moment at me. I was desperately trying to finish my pee but suddenly suffered from stage-fright and couldn't put an end to the job. My family mocked me for this. I took the ribbing in a light-hearted manner, but was then faced with the horrible task of having to wipe myself in front of them all.

I got the toilet paper ready and sat quietly, willing someone to notice what stage I was at and to alert the others to give me some privacy. It didn't happen. I looked at the toilet paper in my hand, realizing I had to just get it over with and at least finally pull my pants up and end this horrific experience. So I got ready, tilted and wiped -

And my entire family stopped talking immediately, looked over at me and did a giant, collective "EWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!" all at once.

I woke up at that point, shuffled to the bathroom to go pee (you have pee dreams because your bladder is bursting in real time) and lovingly caressed the door before going in. I woke up Graham when I crawled back into bed -

Me: Graham?

Graham: Jesus Christ, what?

Me: Can you promise me you'll never burn our bathroom door for heat?

Graham: Why would I? I'd probably burn a few of the other less important doors first, Carole.

Me: Good. I promise I'll never lie in bed depressed for two weeks while you have to only eat chicken pie.

Graham: Fantastic, I fucking hate chicken pie. Shut up and go back to sleep.

So I did.

The terrible Mr. Moving.

We moved last weekend. Is there anything worse than moving? I can't think of it. Ugh, one moment...there. Kung Fu Panda was in my laptops DVD drive and kept setting it off, revving and interrupting my sensitive thought process. Moving is tough on a marriage. This time around I was unable to lift furniture because I'm pregnant, and my husband lifts furniture like a pregnant woman, so we decided to hire movers. We're at that stage in life where our furniture has to last us a few years because it cost us more than $5, so having friends haul it all up flights of stairs and scratching things is no longer an acceptable trade-off for free labour.

Moving didn't bring out the best in us, we discovered. I just wanted to throw out everything in my path, minimising our lives no matter what sentimental value the object in question had. So what if your grandmother smuggled this up her bum out of the old country when the Nazis invaded? It's taking up space - toss that sucker out! Whereas Graham shut down and refused to pack, his total tally of helpful packing coming out to two and a half boxes of only his own DVDs and books.

Picking a moving company was Graham's job. He took it very seriously, picking the first moving company he called and promptly forgetting which one it was. He then spent the week asking me if they take cash or cheque (I must have owned a moving company in a previous life) and procrastinating on calling them to ask until the night before. If we paid in cash we could escape paying taxes, so we went to the bank to pick up some cash and went home to organize the move.

I wasn't very impressed the next morning when the movers were 30 minutes late, and I couldn't call them for two reasons. One, we didn't have any computers to look the number up - we had moved them the night before. Two, Graham gave them our land line to call in case they couldn't find our place and I had joyously and less-than-gently disconnected our digital phone box so it could move with us - and had no idea how to set it back up again. After much squabbling and finger-pointing, a moving truck pulled up out front. Hurrah! I ran downstairs to prop open the door, willing to forgive them for being 30 minutes late when the driver raised his Tim Horton's cup at me and made the universal smoke-break signal at me with his two fingers. What? WHAT? 30 minutes late and I'm supposed to hangout while they finish their coffee and have a cigarette?!

So I shut up and waited. Really, I needed to pick my battles and they were going to carry all my shit anyway. The moving guys came upstairs, had a look around, set up their truck, and then an amazing thing started to happen - our apartment started to get empty, and it wasn't causing us one single second of pain or arguing. While the movers effortlessly picked up our entertainment unit, swivelled dressers out the tiny door, brought our beds downstairs, and shifted my heavy deep freezer, we were able to sit and stare with idiotic grins on our faces. Every time the movers were out of earshot we giggled and whispered to each other excitedly. Our mutual love of the moving guys brought us closer together on a day filled with much stress and conflict.

I think I was even forgiven for ripping the phone out of the wall when I was only supposed to disconnect the modem.

The Pet Swap, Boys.

A month or so ago, Matthew decided he was responsible enough for his own pet. Last year he wanted his own hamster, and after I went over the responsibilities of caring for his own pet (namely, being responsible for cleaning up its turds) Matthew quickly backed down and decided he wasn't old enough to clean up turds. However, last month Matthew decided he now was old enough to clean up turds, and that made me smile with pride. It's not every day you get to realize your child is finally old enough to tidy the feces of another species.

Off we went to the shop to find a suitable hamster and habitat (cage is an outdated term reeking of cruelty and boredom, while habitat is reminiscent of nature and happy pets and helps separate you from your money in a more efficient manner) with warnings to Matthew that he may not find the pet he wants that day. It could take days, weeks, months to find that little rodent with a sparkle in his eye that wants to be your best friend for the next two to three years, I told him. Matthew nodded with understanding and seriousness. We were only looking. Five minutes later we had a hamster in a box and I was filling out forms promising to be a diligent and thoughtful pet owner to our newest furry friend, and if it died I could return it for a new one provided it wasn't hamstercide. A habitat was picked out, an unnecessary amount of rodent supplies tossed on top of it, and we were off home to set up our newest addition.

Matthew called him Chewie, a nickname his grandfather had given him. Chewie was given a place in Matthew's room, and we gave him treats and a bit of space for the first few days so we wouldn't overwhelm his little, tiny face.

A few days later Chewie got sick. We gave him medication, and water around the clock, and he seemed to perk up a bit. I thought we were in the clear, he was running around in his wheel, eating and drinking, and was doing general hamster things like shoving everything he could in his cheeks to carry it 4 inches to the left in his cage, and spitting everything back out again. After his quick hiatus from being sick Chewie again got sick, and this time it was much worse. I stayed up two nights giving him meds and pedialyte from an eye dropper every two hours, holding him in my hand to keep him warm, doing a full-out bedside vigil any Italian mother would be proud of. In my pregnant and hormonal state I started to see this as a warm-up session to the newborn we'll have in June. Granted, I won't try to cheer up my newborn with sunflower seeds but you get the point. I was tired.

Chewie died in my hands at 4am Monday morning. After many tears, some wailing and snotty sobs I put Chewie in a little box in his cage and tried to decide what to do. I woke my husband, crying and sobbing still, asking what to do. He told me to go to sleep...so he could go to sleep. I cleaned out Chewie's cage and sterilised everything, the occasional sniffle and whimper leading back to tears and sobs. I spent the rest of the early morning dreading the inevitable hammer I had to drop on my sunny 9 year old. I wasn't about to tell Matthew his hamster died and then send him off to school in the morning. I was overtired and emotional, and decided to tell Matthew I was taking Chewie to the vet. That could buy me some time in deciding how to tell Matthew his brand-new pet, the only pet he's ever been in charge of, his very first pet ever up and died.

Matthew eyed the box suspiciously in the morning, and asked where Chewie was. I said "He's in the box, I'm taking him to the vet. Get dressed for school" and tried to make the morning as normal as possible. The fact that there was a dead hamster in a box on my entertainment unit made it impossible for me to eat breakfast. While we were driving to his daycare Matthew said "Mom, that box doesn't have any air holes. Chewie needs air holes."

Oh holy Jesus, I didn't put air holes in the box. Why hadn't I thought of that? I pulled over, got a pen out of my purse, and put air holes in the dead hamster's box. How far was I going to go with this, exactly? As fucking far as I needed to, apparently. Holes made, dead hamster well aerated, we continued on to the daycare. Matthew was dropped off and I went to work still with no idea what I was going to do and a quickly freezing dead hamster in a box on my front seat. By noon I had decided the vet was going to perform a miracle Jesus would have been proud of.

The vet was going to fix Chewie and make him all better. This would be achieved by going to a pet shop and getting an identical hamster to stick in the cage for when Matthew came home after school.

Three pet shops later on my lunch break I found what I thought was a suitable replacement. It had a brown face, it was a hamster, and those were really the only two requirements that I had in my desperate state. It was a girl...but that could be overlooked easily enough. I bought her, got her put in a box, filled out the forms, and we were on our way. I got home, reassembled the habitat, and put her in. I gave her some food and treats, and got her a little used to me before I went back to work. I wasn't going to be home when Matthew got home from school, Graham was picking him up. I alerted Graham to my plan, and as usual he told me to do what I pleased and took a few steps back to give me the wide berth my idiotic notions usually require. Graham is very supportive, and will always help me in whatever I do - whether that is encouraging me, or giving me enough rope to hang myself.

Graham phoned me as soon as they were in. I was very excited, and wanted to hear how happy Matthew was that Chewie was all better and bright-eyed again.

Graham: Carole, what were you thinking?

Me: What do you think?! Isn't he great looking?

Graham: Yeah, he looks great...but he's fucking white, Carole. The other hamster was brown.

Me: No, look at the face. It's the same face.

Graham: Well, sure, it's a hamster if that's what you mean. He's also twice the bloody size.

Me: It's a girl, actually.

Graham: So, the brown boy hamster dies and you substitute it with a hairy, white girl hamster twice the size?

Me: Yes. What does Matthew think?

Graham: I haven't shown him. You can do that when you get home.

My confidence was shrinking on the drive home. I got home, brought the hamster habitat down from the shelf and showed Matthew his hamster. Chewie was running around, happy and healthy, and quite obviously twice the size. Why hadn't I noticed that? Was it the black veil I wore all day that stunted my perception? Matthew smiled and said "Look, he's so healthy! He looks so much better!" and I agreed. He went on, "And he's bigger? Did he grow at the vet? And he's whiter! Did he have a bath?" and I agreed.

Matthew carried the cage back to his room and put it back on his dresser. He looked up at me with a big smile and said "Mom, he looks so good and healthy now. He looks like a completely new hamster." and gave me a hug.

And I agreed.