Enter the Doula

A nice woman.  A self-proclaimed “cat person,” which is good, as upon entering our house she was immediately accosted by Dengue the Cat, about whom Kelly blurted out: “Her name is Dengue. Like the disease;” which is both true (yes, dengue fever, aka “breakbone fever,” is a horrible disease and yes, that’s where we got the name) and not true (I like to think it’s more of a cool name from a euphonic standpoint rather than that we were insensitive enough to name our precious little kitten after a disease that  kills thousands of people every year…like, what, we’re going to name our next pet Syphilis?), but regardless it being maybe not the best thing to reveal, unasked, to a woman who practically burst into tears at the thought of circumcising a hypothetical male child.

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Baby, cats, whatever.

My good friend Marc and Kelly and I were on a hike, talking about children. Marc didn’t know Kelly is pregnant. He was going off:

“When I think of children I think of screaming infants, of financial burden, of the rest of your life being dedicated solely to them. How is that appealing? I honestly don’t get it.  I had to ask Sabrina why people have children, why she wants to have children. I wanted her to explain to me what I’m missing.”

“What’s she say?”

“That she hates me.”

We laugh.

“But then I think of my cat,” he goes on. “And I love my cat. When Sabrina told me she wanted a cat, I was like, alright, sure, a cat, woo-hoo. But now? Now, I love my cat. I love him. Never knew I’d love something like that. Sometimes I think that he’s gotten outside and I go into fucking palpitations.”

Kelly and I looked at each other and smiled.

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