Not THE baby, but the other one.
Scene: Veterinary Emergency Room, midnight.
Amy Storch (as seen in The Washingtonian) hobbles into lobby. She's wearing a stunning ensemble of a stained white t-shirt and maternity sweatpants that she never actually wore during pregnancy because hello, frumpy. The nursing pads shoved into her ill-fitting nursing bra are clearly visible. She's wearing no makeup and her hair is in a ponytail on the top of her head, a la Britney Spears.The only trace of the girl she used to be is the designer diaper bag she's dragging behind her which THANK GOD she packed it up months ago, because otherwise it'd probably contain no actual diapers, much less the little tube of Vasoline and the extra baby socks that are in there now. You'd think she was four or five months pregnant if it weren't for the sight of her husband coming in behind her with a three-day-old infant in a car seat.
In her arms, she's carrying a very small dog. The very small dog's front leg is bent in a way that very small dogs' legs should not bend.
She gets to the front desk and can only sob.
Aaaaaaannnnnd...that was our first night home with Noah.
I'd just finished nursing Noah (who is down to an even 9 pounds because no one informed my boobs that I'd given birth to a two-month old), when I yelled at Ceiba to stop licking the baby for the frillionth time that day. She jumped off the bed.
And then there was some kind of Bouncy Seat/Hardwood Floors Incident and the next thing we knew she was howling in pain and sort of flailing all over the place.
I thought, for a split second, that she'd broken her back and I nearly blacked out.
But no, she broke her front leg. It's a clean break, but both leg bones are broken damn in two. She'll require surgery, which she'll get today. We left her at the vet last night so they could get her pain under control and apply a temporary splint.
(This whole mess will cost over three thousand dollars, which at this point I need to say if you people have pets and no pet insurance? You be insane.)
(Of course, I am saying this before I have called the pet insurance people to double-check that they will actually cover the surgery, because GOD, insurance companies are assholes.)
(Like our car insurance company, who we are currently dealing with because SOMEONE BACKED INTO OUR CAR IN THE HOSPITAL PARKING LOT AND DID NOT LEAVE A NOTE AND I WISH VERY VERY BAD THINGS ON THAT PERSON BECAUSE SERIOUSLY, IT'S A HOSPITAL PARKING LOT.)
God. I'm tired. All this shit is happening and yet I? Have not pooped since Thursday.
Anyway. Our first night home was less than a raging success, except for the real human baby part. He's fine. He's actually the most perfect child ever, in my opinion. I mean, he's sleeping on a Boppy pillow wrapped around my chest right now just so I could use the laptop and tell the Internet that my dog broke her leg because the Internet will understand.
Right? You understand. Just like my mom understood when I called her at 12:30 last night, scaring her out of her damn mind because all I could do at first was cry -- which of course meant that Noah was dead or sick or dead, but no, I was just calling because my dog is hurt and it's all my fault and I'm sitting here in the vet's office in ugly clothes and I left the Percoset at home and I brought the baby to the vet where he can catch rabies or something and I'm kind of a wreck, Mommy, can you just tell me everything is going to be okay?
She did, and it will. But...man, my poor little dog. I spent all day yesterday yelling at her to stop being a pain in the ass. I can only imagine what's going to happen one day when I yell at Noah to stop being a turd and then he like, gets a hangnail or something. I might not be able to forgive myself.
<and now, the obligatory baby photos>