We successfully navigated our ten plus hour roundtrip car ride to my mother-in-law's for Thanksgiving with few incidents besides Scrappy Doo spilling his root beer bottle filled with pee all over the backseat.
We stop about half way through the trip since we all needed a pee and the husband joins us in the van for the rest of the trip west leaving B-I-L to drive the Cooper. The husband stops for nothing and no one when he is traveling on the highway so when James Dean announces that he needs to pee again after having finished his large soda, the husband tells him to stick his penis in his empty root beer bottle to relieve himself. Peeing into drink cups in the car is not a new concept for my boys so JD quickly empties his bladder into the bottle and puts the cap back on. The amber liquid in the bottle that was supposed to contain a "caramel colored" drink tickles my funny bone. What would happen if we got stopped by the police? I imagine some State Trooper asking the husband to step out of the car thinking he is trying to be tricky and drink his beer out of a soda bottle. How would we convince him it was actually pee and not a Heineken? Yuck.
Minutes later, unable to resist his constant urge to do what his older brother does, Scrappy Doo announces that he too has to pee. Why I put the little guy in the third row of seats is still a mystery to me but I instruct him to take his little winker out and repeat the process his brother just completed and then hand the bottle of pee back up to me. He manages to get the pee into the bottle but as he is screwing the cap on, the bottle falls to the floor splattering the boy and Pepper the farting dog as well as soaking the floor in the back of the van. I go Mission Impossible and unbuckle myself so I can climb over two kids and a dog in the second row of seats while driving 75 mph, squeeze into the third row and sani wipe everything. Next time I am driving.
We finally get to our destination and have a fun couple of days visiting. Now, some of you may remember from my blog a month or so ago that my M-I-L purchased some angora rabbits and mated one of the females for us so the boys could experience the miracle of baby bunny birth. She actually mated both females but was unsure if they were pregnant. Since there were no signs of labor or even evidence that the fluff ball bunny was pregnant, we loaded her up with the two dogs, three kids and three adults (B-I-L was now coming in the van with us) and headed home with the promise of a stop at Toys' R Us to make the ride a little more bearable.
My brother-in-law regaled us with tales of the pet rabbits he had as a kid, though the stories were a little more Stephen King than Beatrix Potter. Father and son rabbits banished from the hutch for fighting over the affections of the mother rabbit only to start an all out war in the backyard: Oedipus had nothing on this son.
I am starting to get an uneasy feeling about this pregnant rabbit thing. Plus, poor Baby Bunny is still not going to be able to have a friend in his hutch because that will just make more bunnies.
The day after we get home my mother-in-law calls to tell us that the other female rabbit just gave birth. Prince is hopeful that our bunny (who James Dean named Little Bunny Foo Foo) might give birth at any moment, but she was mated before the other rabbit and is showing no signs of nesting. The following morning I get up to check on the rabbit and nothing seems to have changed. Two hours later Prince tells me he thinks there is a dead baby in the cage with her. Sure enough, Little Bunny Foo Foo gave birth to two babies and then promptly killed them. I am sure she was stressed out being in a new place and all, but even my crazy ADHD dog growing up was able to successfully whelp and suckle twelve puppies. I think the Ancient Greeks were probably raising rabbits when they wrote their plays.
Prince immediately blames me for the deaths. I guess I was supposed to play midwife to a rabbit I wasn't even sure was pregnant instead of making his breakfast, feeding his dogs, and doing his dirty laundry so he could have his "comfy socks" for basketball practice. Can you tell I am a little bitter? Once I give him my best "How dare you say that to me" speech, he calms down and realizes that the rabbit was just being a shitty mother and he had better be nice to me in case I get any ideas.
Now that she is no longer pregnant we decide to throw poor Baby Bunny a bone and put Little Bunny Foo Foo in the hutch with him since we don't have to worry about them fighting over who gets to eat the young since the young are already dead. Well, I guess she was feeling a little hormonal after just giving birth and killing her babies and she pounced on top of poor Baby Bunny and started ripping the fur out of his neck. I am sure I wouldn't really feel like entertaining a suitor right after I gave birth, but she was going for blood. The husband quickly scoops up Baby Bunny and put him into the chicken tractor.
Now we have two lone rabbits in separate houses and no babies. The new rabbit is no longer called Little Bunny Foo Foo, but BFF as an homage to my search for friends. The only difference is that BF does not stand for Best Friend but rather Bitch Face. The kids and I bond over our dislike for our homicidal rabbit and we have a good chuckle in the car when we come up with her new name. Not the Popcorn Bowl Moment I wanted, but I will take it nonetheless.
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