I simply cannot make this stuff up.
After dropping Claire off at volleyball practice one day last week, Kate, Amy and I were on our way back home. My plan was to fold a load of laundry, try to finish a blog post I’d been wrestling with for most of the day, and finalize supper. Oh! And make Kate do her homework, and go back to pick up Claire in 70 minutes. (Never let it be said I live an unexciting existence.)
So Thing One (Kate) and Thing Two (Amy) are chatting in the van’s second-row seating, and out of the blue Kate says, “Mom, don’t forget that you have to take Beethoven [our cat] to the vet tomorrow morning!”
Which, of course, I had NOT forgotten. When your all-time favorite pet, who you’ve raised from a 6-week-old kitten and is now 14 ½, starts randomly pooping around the house, you’re not likely to forget that a vet appointment is critical to said pet’s survival. (I believe one of the more recent quotes from Hubby was something about a handgun and target practice. He’s not typically a callous person, but between years of cat puke stains on our carpet and recently stepping in fresh cat poop one morning at 6 a.m., barefoot and post-shower no less, I’m pretty sure his nightly prayers include a plea to be feline-free.]
So… no. I had not forgotten about the vet visit. And I reassured the girls as such.
“Are you going to take her to the same place as the last time, mom?” Amy asks, all curious and conversational. “The place we took her when she had that blue tape coming out her butt?”
And there’s a memory I don’t really want to resurrect.
You see, about 4 – 5 months ago, Beethoven, who loves to chew on plastic (and occasionally eat it, which explains the puke thing mentioned above), recently ate part of a tall kitchen garbage bag. It was the kind with the blue plastic loop in it that you pull to close the bag. And my cat, ONLY my cat would do this, ate part of that blue part.
Which I did not know until it started, uh, going through her digestive system. NOT pretty. Actually, truth be told, that cobalt blue was one of my favorite colors, once-upon-a-time.
But not any more.
Not knowing how long the strip of plastic was, I didn’t think pulling the thing out of her rear was the thing to do. And after a little Google research, it was clear that such a thing could be life-threatening. So off to the vet we all (the girls and the cat and I) went. ($65 later, we found out that piece hanging from her behind was the end of it, and was, at that point, simply poop-pasted to her rear end. Essentially the office visit provided the vet a good giggle, and Beethoven, a professional half-bath from the vet tech.)
See? I’m NOT kidding – I simply do not possess an imagination sadistic enough or inventive enough to come up with this crap. (No pun intended.)
Somehow, Kate must not have been paying full attention to Amy’s last question – or perhaps she had already erased the traumatic and bizarre experience that I just recounted (lucky you!) from her sweet little 7-year-old mind. “Huh? What tape?” she asked.
Amy, all patient and matter-of-fact, responded, “You know, when Beethoven had that blue tape on her bottom. Remember?”
Via my kiddie-spy mirror, I could almost see Kate recreating the incident in her mind’s eye. “Ohhhhh yeah,” she replied with a smile.
And then… Amy says – like she’s mentioning that she had applesauce for lunch – “You know, it looked a little like Beethoven had a penis.”
Did she just say what I *think* she said?????
Kate and I were completely silent for at least 30 seconds.
And then Kate says in a voice an octave higher than normal, “What did you just say?”
“I said, ‘it looked like a penis.’” Again with the nothing-special tone. “You know, boys have them. They’re like a tail, but in front.”
Thank GOD I am at a stop light at this point. I’m not sure whether I should be horrified, scared, or doubled over in laughter – either way, I cannot pay attention to rush-hour traffic at the moment.
Kate, using her no-big-deal voice, says “Oh yeah, I knew that.”
And then Amy leans over to her a little and says, “And I’m pretty sure that’s where boys have their bladders, too.”
WHERE is she getting her information???????
Kate accepts her sister’s statement as fact (I’m temporarily mute at this point) and says thoughtfully, “Gee, they must have really small bladders then, don’t they?” As if she were feeling sorry for all males everywhere. She had said something similar earlier in the week about a classmate getting lice, like “what a bummer.”
Meanwhile, I’m in the driver’s seat making strangled noises as the light turns green in front of me.
Just when I think it cannot get any weirder, Kate, who goes to the bathroom about 12 times a day, has a revelation. “Gee, I have a tiny bladder TOO! I wonder if this is what it’s like to feel like a boy?” she ponders.
Oh. My. Gawd. Just shoot me now. Because I think I’d rather be incapacitated than try to discuss all this to a level of detail that’s age-appropriate, and uh, ACCURATE.
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