Reasons to Wear Perfume

For the first time since I became a mother, today I’m wearing perfume.

It is not for a special occasion, special person or special day, but rather, very ordinary events that unraveled my morning well before the beautiful sunrise struck Indiana.

I came in contact with the feces from three species before 6:30 AM: bovine, feline and Caroline. Because of this, I’m wearing my fourth outfit of the day – hopefully my final. Until I get home tonight and have to feed cattle, again. Hopefully, after that: pajamas. Six changes of clothes in 12 hours isn’t bad for someone not in diapers. Right?

For the record, CJ is on outfit number three and I 

packed four more to cover the next eight hours. 

I have this strange smell of amoxicillin and acid reflux swirling around me, and despite holding strands of my hair under the bathroom sink faucet and using Bath & Body Works White Citrus hand soap as shampoo, I can’t seem to get rid of it. I have two strategically placed bobby pins in my hair holding back certain parts that have dried, not clean, but crusty. I did a spray-and-run of Lysol and perfume before leaving the house to cover all germs and smells. 

After giving CJ her infant Tylenol, I licked my fingers, rather than wash them, hoping that the sweet relief she gets from the stuff will somehow alleviate the pain her mother recognizes as “Thursday”.  Despite the .05 mL of drugs ingested, I can still feel the pain.

On the way to daycare I asked CJ to behave, to be kind, to take a nap and to eat her food. She promised fifty-percent. That’s the most I can hope for from a 7-month-old. At least she’s honest.

I listened to praise music on full blasters all the way to work because I figured it was the only way to keep myself from cussing the morning; it’s hard to say bad words when worship music is filling your ears. I came into the co-op parking lot on two wheels, leftover Mexican food in one hand, computer bag in the other, stopping every three feet to check the bottoms of my shoes. Something was lingering and it wasn’t amoxicillin, acid reflux, Lysol or perfume.

Damn barn cats.

I'm Sorry, Shadow

"I think you need to shoot the cat," I said to Cody in early June as I walked in the house one evening after work. 

"What?! Why?" he instantly asked with a concerned look on his face, obviously fearing the worst.

Our barn cat - affectionately named Shadow because she follows so closely that she tripped me twice during her first week on the farm - began looking pretty rough not long ago.

"Have you seen her lately? She's so skinny. Strung out. Sometimes she drags one leg. She hasn't blinked in weeks. I think you need to put her out of our misery," I presented my argument. 

"Geezo preezo (famous CS line)...give her a break. She isn't dying; she just had four kittens. I'm not shooting her - she is taking care of her young," his bleeding heart responded.

Well, I tried. 

Now, two and a half weeks into motherhood, I'd like to take this time to publicly apologize. 

I'm sorry, Shadow. 

I so get it now. 

For a month I've watched you hide on one side of the barn while your beady-eyed babies meow for a milky treat. I've watched you lie alone in the shade and not move a muscle to console them while they look around for you. I thought you were heartless. Non-maternal. Lazy. 

I get it now. Two days ago a beady-eyed baby in my living room woke from a nap earlier than I anticipated and I dropped to the floor and army crawled across the carpet to the staircase so she wouldn't see me. She wasn't crying, but she was searching. I don't even know if she can see me at this age? She is always looking around, aimlessly; in fact up until Saturday, we assumed she was blind. I get it, Shadow. I understand not wanting to be seen, for just a few more minutes, until you get one more thing done. I get wanting to use your arms for thirty more seconds. I understand wanting to change the laundry out in the basement without hearing a blood-curling scream through the farmhouse register. 

I'm sorry, Shadow.

I so get it now. 

I've always wondered why you act half-dead during feeding time. Like, on your side, eyes shut, barely breathing, no movement, half-dead. Totally taken advantage of. 

For the record, I'm not the one who made the giant ball of yarn/twine 

for the kittens' entertainment, but I bet you can guess who did. 

I feed only one baby and every two hours she sucks the life right out of me. I understand half-dead because right now I'm living on under-eye concealer paired with waterproof mascara, middle-of-the-night Snapchats from single friends, chicken salad from the church ladies, Dr. Phil reruns, and a cup of black coffee I've warmed up three times in the microwave. Sometimes I fall asleep in the nursery and wake up only because the beautiful, snoozy infant in my arms reminds me that it's time to feed, again. I get it. 

I'm sorry, Shadow.
I so get it now. 

From our patio I've watched you tackle your kids, hold them down with two legs, and bath them using such force that you could be a prime story on the CBS Evening News resulting in a peaceful protest. I've watched them resist, fight back, then finally give in. 

I get it now. I've tried to bath a baby 1/25 my weight only four times and each time I cry more than she does. I get the struggle. I know why you use gentle force - because they're a double threat:  breakable and slick. I have a fancy farmhouse kitchen sink bath tub and I still worry about drowning, missing a crease and using too much soap. 

They say parenthood changes things and I couldn't agree more. 
Until last week I had never cried tears of joy when zipping up my favorite mom jeans.

Or, publicly written an apology letter to a feral cat.

I think I need a hobby.