Two parents, a baby boy, and a French bulldog. We’re living the American dream.
When our son was a newborn, we’d joke about how, in just a few months, Gracie and Colt would be BEST. FRIENDS. They’d run together, fetch together, sleep together – cuddled up like those E-mail forwards with the bear cubs and baby chicks spooning in an ostrich nest. cough. bullshit. cough.
Now that Colt weighs 22 pounds, same as Gracie, our dreams are coming true. Running (well, fast knee-walking), fetching, sleeping together. It’s adorable.
A few weeks ago, we attended a birthday party. I was wearing a new sweater set, and I remembered to put on deodorant, so it was a good day.
Colt was fed, dressed, fresh and positively shining. I plopped him down with the other babies, and fluttered over to the drink table. Grabbed a mimosa and made small talk with another mommy.
I thought, I am so good at this. Just like Kelly Ripa in those Electrolux commercials.
And then I look over. Enter slow motion.
Colt is wallowing, nuzzling, sort-of-dry-humping, a baby girl child. Grunting. Licking her face. And sniffing. Her butt?
Oh the horror.
I felt the collective stare from the other mothers. Judging. Judging.
I could already hear the dinner party banter…. “And then, I swear to God, he smelled her butt!” Collective gasp.
Verbal diarrhea took over, and I plead my case. “We have a dog, and Colt doesn’t go to daycare, so he only plays with his grandparents and Gracie, and well that’s what Gracie does, because she’s a dog, so I guess he’s just picked it up!! …Pause… Bat Eyelashes… Big Smile…. And. I’m so sorry. That he smelled your baby’s butt.”
It never quite works out how you plan it in your head.