Murray has made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t want us having anymore kids. He doesn’t outwardly dislike Emory. As a matter of fact, he and Emory have teamed up a few times to ransack the place. I don’t think he’s particularly upset with Emory on a personal level. I think he’s just really annoyed that he’s no longer the baby.
He hasn’t come out and said, “Hey, Michele and Toby, no more of these pale, bald things, OK?” He is way too passive aggressive for that sort of declaration. Instead, he’s letting me know in the most painful, and Murray-like way possible: by trying to shred my crotch.
Here’s my crotch.
I realize that’s not want you wanted to see when you stopped by here today. It’s not what I wanted to see today either, and it’s my crotch. But it plays the leading role in this particular story.
Lately, I have been doing a lot of yoga. It’s not that I necessarily want to do yoga. I do enjoy it very much. But I’m also (still) having a really difficult time right now. In fact, had there been a mental health facility within walking distance to my house yesterday, I would have had myself committed. Yesterday, was a very, very bad day. Today is better. That’s the problem with this postpartum stuff, it’s unpredictable. Not knowing how I’m going to feel from one day to the next has me feeling more uneven and nervous. It’s a vicious cycle.
Point is, I am still very much actively sorting out my postpartum situation. (But that’s a post for another day. This one is about Murray.)
Shall we? We shall.
I basically live in yoga pants. They’re comfortable, sure. But wearing yoga pants without actually practicing yoga is way too depressing, so I force myself to go as much as possible. I have about three pair of pants that I rotate through. Each pair of yoga pants have ties that wrap around the waist. But I don’t need the drawstrings because my belly, hips and ass do their job well. My pants defy gravity thanks to the effortless support I get from my ass. (Too bad my ass doesn’t specialize in postpartum support as well.) It probably doesn’t come as much of a surprise to anyone to read that I don’t usually tie the drawstrings since my pants pose zero threat of actually falling down. Plus, why tie them when I can prove to myself repeatedly of how thoughtless I am?
At least three times a week, Murray lunges at me with every bit of feline force – nails out, teeth exposed, eyes crazy – and tries to attack the dangling pant strings, which give way like dust to his paws. It’s like that scene in Edward Scissorhands, my crotch the small dog or block of ice, his paws are Edward’s hands. Only it’s a lot less visually stimulating and Winona Ryder is never present. (Bloody shame, too. I could use an extra pair of hands around the house when Toby’s at work.)
At the rate we’re going, I’ll be incapable of having kids by summer.