Those poor, poor dogs. The cats are used to it, but the dogs were always center stage. Eventually the baby will stop doing cute things allllllllll the time and I'll remember how Nanna has been my best friend for over 11 years and how Ozzy has consistently provided me with hours of entertainment, if not headaches and an ulcer.
I'm so ashamed. I didn't even post about the lumps. That's right--two for Nanna and one for Ozzy. (They were all either fatty tumors or benign sarcomas, so we came out ahead in that match.) Nor did I post about the bangs (I got BANGS last week. The jury is still out, waaay out.) Honestly, what kind of person have I become? I person with lumpy dogs and a questionable hair do, apparently.
It's a lethal combination of spending 24/7 with Samson and...spending 24/7 with Samson. Makes for some difficult blogging. Either type one-handed--and I have a hard enough time typing with both hands--or use my precious sleeping baby time to blog, laundry and hygiene be damned. And even if I did blog more, there's not much to blog about other than my fleshy pink master. I could blog about the social hierarchy of my Friday afternoon playgroup. Did you know that infant playgroups have cliques? It's absolutely ridiculous. Or I could blog about the wonders of Baby Einstein videos and damn how I wish they had these when I was in high school. But it all comes back to Samson.
And poor Nanna, she knows it. She's lying on the floor, looking up at me with those big brown eyes. Do you even know where my belly is?
But I've got to make more of an effort, for the sake of my own identity. Wait, I do have an identity, right? Or did I loose it in that pile of onsies waiting to be laundered?
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