Last night while watching some TV, prompted by a hormonal, pregnant character, I turned to The Native assuredly and said, “I was pretty good during pregnancy, wasn’t I? Ya know, not too crazy?”
To which he replied, “Uh, you were ooooookay.”
Shocked by his hesitancy to praise how obviously level-headed and cucumber cool I was throughout those nine months, I prompted him, “Oooookay? What does that mean?!”
And then he said this.
“Well, there was that time you locked me in the back garden.”
It seems that after having The Duchess I had shut away that – shall we call it a blip? Yes….blip – away in my pre-natal vault of craziness forever.
Just hear me out for a second.
I got this urge to bake some brownies; the first symptom that perhaps my hormones were about to send me whack-a-doodle. I send The Native out to collect some ingredients, including some chocolate. He returns with *gasp, shock, horror* Tesco’s baking chocolate. Now, I had envisioned these brownies to be the most indulgent, decadent, mouth-watering brownies that man or beast had ever feasted upon and when he arrived home with chocolate that you can buy for less than a pound, it was as good as bringing home a bar of faeces in my pregnant mind.
That’s where it began and I’m sure, after my heated commentary on the evils of cheap store-brand baking chocolate, The Native wished that this is also where it ended . Sadly, it was not to be so. With a heightened sense of smell and a temper that was flaring, I demanded the dog be given a bath. The Native ushered him out into the back garden of our Victorian terrace. Then, I saw it.
He was using Pantene on our dog.
I snapped. Not because it was Pantene necessarily (what dog doesn’t want a coat that shimmers), but because the vet had told us when Big Brown was a puppy that baby shampoo was best for his sometimes flaky skin.
Nothing was right. The brownies weren’t right. The smell of the dog wasn’t right. Soaping him up with Pantene wasn’t right and I walked to the back door and said, “I’m done.”
Then, I locked it.
The Native could only escape by one of three ways:
- Gathering branches from the tree, lighting a fire a la Castaway, and using his shirt to send up smoke signals to whomever might be watching the midday sky.
- Sending Big Brown sailing over the lowest fence in search for help.
- Scaling one of the fences of our neighbours, approaching their back door, and telling them that his crazy, pregnant wife has imprisoned him in his own backyard.
Realizing that none of those were bound to end very well or to endear me to my neighbours, I turned to see The Native gently knocking at the back door with a bewildered look on his face.
I knew that I was being…ahem….somewhat irrational so I asked him to take a walk so I could calm down. He came back with luxury chocolate, baby shampoo, and a completely unnecessary apology. I burst into tears.
Man alive, did I marry well.