I've been saving up a story I think describes you and these past six months far better than anything I could come up with on my own.
But first, sweet toes.
You were born in the dead of Maine winter, which was rather brave of you (not that you had much choice). Several awful and magical months followed, making us all the more relieved once the first days of spring brought warmer weather and the opportunity to get the hell out of the house. We bundled up, packed some snacks, piled in the car with Jackson in the back, and headed to Mackworth Island. It was a lovely morning, a bit chilly perhaps, but a wonderful time.
And then we headed back home.
Jackson was in the back next to the jogger which, apparently, I neglected to secure properly. As we turned off 295 onto Baxter Blvd, the jogger heaved to the left trapping Jackson against the window. Needless to say, it was an epic freak out with all kinds of yelping and crying and jerking and flying head long over the back seat. But instead of jumping into the middle between the two car seats like any normal beast, Jackson lurched forward, front paws followed by back paws, right onto your big round belly.
What happened next sums up each of us and how we coexist.
I immediately pulled over and slammed on the breaks. Eva started howling in terror, ripping at her seat belt straps trying to get to you. Once she realized she was stuck, she started crying buckets of tears while intermittently yelling incoherent mumbles about how Jackson was killing you and how it was my job, as your mother, to remedy the situation. I jumped out of the car and into the back hatch hoping to pull Jackson back over the seat...MY BIG POSTPARTUM ASS HANGING OUT OF THE CAR, SKIRT FLYING UP WITH ONCOMING TRAFFIC PASSING BY.
With Jackson facing forward ALL 50 POUNDS OF PANIC squarely on your belly, I grabbed for his collar. Just as I got hold, he started to turn around. HE DID A LITTLE TURN AROUND DANCE, 37 tiny doggie steps on top of you until he was facing me in the back hatch. Then, the unthinkable happened. As I pulled on his collar, he leaned back against my weight as if to inform me there was no possible way on God's green Earth he was going anywhere. And then he sat on your face.
I'll pause to let one sink in.
As if in slow motion, you looked up just long enough to see a big, hairy, Jackson butt hole land right on your forehead. I'm not even kidding.
Eventually, Eva's valium kicked in, Jackson moved over to the middle seat, and everything seemed to regulate itself, but one thing remained the same. Homey, you didn't even flinch. No crying, no fussing, not even a twinge of dismay as a hairy beast danced on your belly and then butt hole-stamped your face. You sat there and giggled through it all.