My poor dog just had puppies, six of them, and when she came out from under the shed that first postpartum day, with dirt mixed with unmentionables in her tail, I felt for her. Bad. I patted her head, and I rubbed behind her ears for a long time.
“Good job Momma.” I said, and I patted her tired head one last time before heading inside to my own litter.
The rest of the week hasn’t been much kinder to her, and though the afterbirth has been washed from her fur, she still has that look of sheer exhaustion in her droopy eyes. And that’s not the only thing sagging either.
Her full breasts were dragging the dirt today as she came out to greet me, and I thought, I feel ya there little Momma. My own nipples status post wean are still resembling a stroke patient’s mouth, and I keep holding out hope that the cocoa butter will work a miracle while I sleep.
My husband has mentioned that the dog is acting strange, pooping in front of the shed rather than out back, and getting her runner tangled around the tree. He noticed that she just wasn’t acting like herself, and even said, “that dog has lost her mind!”
I feel ya there little Momma.
I hate to blame it on hormones, as I’ve always despised that sort of thing, speaking as if it’s a disease women suffer from rather than the gift it truly represents. But I told my husband regardless, “honey, I think she’s hormonal.”
Today I found myself in a pickle of sorts. It was like I had wound my runner around a tree, and I couldn’t quite figure out how to right myself.
I couldn’t breathe! Why in the world I decided to wear a fitted, button-up blouse with skinny jeans while I was retaining water was beyond me, and as I sat in the van waiting to pull out of the driveway of my in-laws house I considered ripping off my shirt.
I couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t think. I had forgotten the hotdogs, and my hair was frizzy. My head hurt, and my tummy hurt, and I couldn’t breathe. I waited, and I waited, with my turn signal on, but cars kept coming, and I couldn’t breathe.
Help me Lord! I cried, and hot tears came. And still the cars kept coming, and I couldn’t breathe.
Help me Lord. I have no control over this! And then there was a break in the cars, and I turned left, but I still couldn’t breathe.
“Don’t forget the hotdogs.” My husband had said as I headed out the door, and besides changing shirts, that was the whole reason I was going home. As I looked at him quizzically, I realized he must think I had lost my mind.
I feel ya there little Momma. I was honestly surprised I wasn’t shitting all over the yard too.
I hate to blame hormones, but the dog’s already busy. She’s got problems of her own to tend to, and hungry puppies don’t wait until you’re done crying in the bathroom with the door closed. Do they?
Some days you just have to change your shirt. And then try another one. And then twelve shirts later, with a pile of discarded clothes in the closet floor, you can dry your eyes and head out the door. Because you got a litter to feed, but it’s okay because at least you can breathe.
And sometimes you turn around again. Because you forgot the hotdogs. Again. But you don’t cry this time, you laugh.
I feel ya there little Momma.
Now if someone could just scratch behind my ears, and tell me “good job Momma,” I think I’d be fine. I can breathe, so I think I’ll be fine.