The little dog ate a pregnancy test today. A used one. The more I think about it, the weirder of a person I seem to myself. Am I the only woman compelled to keep the positive pregnancy test that alerted us that a baby was on the way almost 7 years ago? It's not like it was laying around on the bathroom counter this whole time. It was in a sealed Ziplock in a box of BabyChellBell-related mementos.
Still, maybe that's weird.
To my defense, I had decided to part with the EPT earlier today in a fit of cleaning. Seriously, now that we have the 6 year old princess herself, the first pee-induced indication of her arrival is really no longer necessary. So the sealed Ziploc, along with other things no longer needed, were waiting in the trash can ready for permanent removal.
Why the little dog picked the pregnancy test, I will never know. (Oh, he also ate a tube of hair gel that was in the trash can -- judging by his new hair-do and the smell of his breath, there was still a bit of gel left in there). I can't let the little dog kiss me at this point. I think it will be a while...
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