And while I stood at the window like this. . . (PS--still wearing that exact same outfit)
I saw that she has a brand new puppy. A little fat-bellied, puppy-breathed, needle-toothed ball of uber cuteness. And then I got all flustered and jealous and I wanted to go over and distract her by kicking a skateboard and making it knock stuff over so that I could steal the puppy. (Someone's been watching a little too much Toy Story.) But that's a bad idea, because we don't need another dog for lots of reasons and because she would probably figure it out pretty quickly. Dammit.
So to satiate my puppy yearnings, I dug out some old pictures of my Mitchell. (I didn't have a digital camera back then, which is probably for the best, because there's just not enough digital memory in the world. But our new printer has a scanner, so I can share them here now.)
Mitch was a really bad puppy. Like really really bad. And he still has days where he drives me and Matt bananas, when he whines and gets in our faces and barks and howls.
But even during the worst of those moments, I can always think of him like this.
Be still, my uterus!
If you don't hear from me for a few days, it's probably because I'm off at some experimental doctor's office getting my uterus filled like a gumball machine with puppy embryos.
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