By Heather O.
Something happens when your last child goes to Kindergarten. Something sad and scary. Something hormonal and crazy. Something deep.
Otherwise, you might come home with this:
His name is Winston. My husband is calling him, “My Decision.”
As in, this morning, when my son let him out, and the dog ended up in bed, “Your decision is sitting on my head,” my eternal companion said.
So I moved the fur ball to my side of the bed, where he immediately sat on my head, and then jumped back over to DH’s head, and then started scrabbling at the space between the wall and the bed, effectively trying to smother himself while he got himself stuck at the same time.
“Hey, he’s going to kill himself,” I mumbled, as I pulled him away from the brink.
“Take your decision out and give him a walk,” my husband mumbled back.
Still tired from the barking during the night, I said, “I don’t want to. I want you to.”
“He’s Your Decision.”
“I hate you.”
“I don’t care.”
Thus began our week, and thus here is the first of many Winston related posts.
Seriously, ladies, petshops? Steer clear.
p.s. I don’t really hate my husband. I lurve him.
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