“I want to call him Bud,” Gavin states as he runs around us in circles with the dog right on his heels.
“That’s a good name,” Carter tells him.
“I know. I’m naming him after the daddy juice you drink.”
“How about we wait a little bit before deciding on a name,” Carter tells him.
“Reginald Phillip, get down!” Madelyn scolds.
We turn around to see the dog mounted up on Gavin’s back with his paws on his shoulders. Gavin just keeps moving and laughing. It looks like a freaky version of the locomotion dance.
“Ha ha. What’s he doing?! This is fun!” Gavin laughs.
“Oh my God, he’s humping our kid,” I mutter, smacking Carter on the arm so he will do something.
Carter runs over and pulls the dog off of Gavin by its collar.
“Heeeey, why’d you do that? We were having fun,” Gavin complains.
“Uh, he was trying to pee on you,” Carter tells him.
I look at him like he's insane and he just shrugs. “What? I panicked. I can’t tell him what humping means,” he says quietly.
Gavin lets out another excited yell and once again, we find the dog hugging onto his shoulders and thrusting his hips behind him.
“Hump, hump, hump. I’m gonna pee on you! Hump, hump, hump!” Gavin chants as the two hop around the room and Carter tries to separate them again.
“Obviously you’ll want to have him neutered as soon as possible,” Madelyn states with a straight face.
Gee, you think? The dog is trying to breed with my son.
“All aboard the choo-choo train, all aboard the choo-choo train, WOOT WOOT!” Gavin sings with the dog happily enjoying his caboose position.
“Carter, get me the hose.”
23. Scittly Scat-Scat
Five months later.
“Last chance to change your mind. You’re sure this is what you want to do,” Carter asks as he starts the car and backs out of the driveway.
“I swear to God if you ask me that one more time, I’m going to straight up murder your ass. It’s like you want me to wreck my vagina,” I tell him.
Today is the big day. The one I have been equally dreading and looking forward to: my scheduled c-section. We are on our way to the hospital now so I can get checked in. Carter has been questioning my decision to have a repeat c-section since the day the doctor asked me about it six months ago.
“It’s not that. I just want to make sure you don’t regret never having the experience of actual childbirth. I’ve heard that some women who have c-sections get really depressed because they didn’t get to know the joy of pushing their child out,” Carter explains.
“I’m sorry, who are these women you spoke to? Did you make a trip to a mental hospital recently? What woman in her right mind would regret that her vagina didn’t turn into a gaping, bloody wound with bodily fluids pouring out of it and a baby clawing its way out, sometimes ripping and tearing until her vagina and asshole are just one big disgusting abyss?” I ask.
“Forget I said anything. I just want you to be happy,” Carter states diplomatically.
“Some women take a dump on the birthing table when they are pushing their kid out. Do you really think that’s an experience you want to have?” I question. “I’ve heard the nurses make quick work of cleaning it up before anyone notices, but you’ll notice. Believe me. How can you NOT notice the room suddenly smelling of fecal matter?”
“Stop, please stop,” Carter begs.
“I am very happy with my decision. And you should be happy that six weeks from now, banging me won’t feel like waving a stick in a cave or dipping your pinkie into the Grand Canyon.”
“Okay, I get it,” Carter says as he pulls into the hospital parking lot.
“Thrusting a pencil into a fireplace...shoving a piece of straw into a barn door,” I add.
“Why am I getting turned on right now?” Carter asks as he finds a parking space and we get out of the car.
“Are you into scat play? You’re not going to make me poop on you at some point are you? Tell me now so I can give you this ring back.”
Carter ignores me as we get into the elevator and make our way up to Labor and Delivery. But I will not be ignored. Oh no, I will not be ignored.
“Scittly scat-scat, do bop dee scat!” I sing as we walk up to the nurse’s station and hand them my admitting forms.
The nurse gives me a funny look so I feel it's only right to explain to her my song choice.
“My fiancé wants to me to poop on him,” I tell her. “Scat-scat, dee didily bop!”
“Oh Jesus, I’m sorry. I don’t know what has gotten into her this morning,” he explains, shooting me a dirty look.
“It’s perfectly fine.” The nurse laughs. “It’s just nerves. Believe me, I’ve heard worse from other women checking in.” she told us.