Last week my four-year-old drew a picture of me. “Look, Mom! I drew a beautiful picture of you. You’re a pig!” And I was. A fat, yellow pig. She’s getting to be a pretty decent artist, and she even personalized my pig persona by giving me hair. All over. I couldn’t be mad because I’m pretty furry, and that particular detail is an accurate depiction of real life.
While I would rather not be compared to a barnyard animal (with the exception of the years I spent as a dairy cow with a calf on my udders), I admit that I do have many tenancies that closely resemble many of our friends in the animal kingdom.
I have a pouch. It isn’t big enough to hold a joey, but it can hold some bellybutton lint and a few stray chip crumbs.
If you know me in real life, you understand that this one is a stretch, but when properly motivated, I can be swift. Offer to watch my kids and see how quickly I grab my bag and run away.
This side of me rarely comes out, but when my cubs are threatened, I can be dangerous. I would consider stalking a campground in search of snacks, I can tear into some salmon, and I stage mini-hibernations in the winter.
Since becoming a mother, I am constantly getting to the bottom of smells. Those smells often come from a bottom. “Who pooped?” “Did you poop?” “Do you need to poop?” “What’s that smell?” Did someone leave milk in the car?” “You can’t have cheese in your room.” “Banana peels go in the trash, not under the couch.” I may not be as skilled as a bloodhound, but I’m as determined.
My smile is gigantic and I laugh like an idiot. I scavenge most of my meals.
I like picking at my loved ones, or grooming, as it’s called in the wild. I pick at my husband, at my kids, and at myself. In middle school, I picked food out of my best friend’s braces.
I’m too lazy to explain this one.