I’ve been spending a lot of time with the Jersey cow and her preemie calf.    When viewed from the side, Rosie looks pretty good.  At this angle, she still looks very pregnant.  Or very fat.  Whatever you call it, she’s still huge.   I worried about bloat.  I dreamed one night that by some freak chance she had another calf in there, still growing and biding its time until it could emerge like some alien space creature with big teeth and a raging, carnivore appetite.

(Note to self:  cross cold pizza off the bedtime snack list.)

My neighbor said he had a cow with a belly like that, and she lived 20 years.  That’s good to know.  I thought about what he said and considered that Rosie just got through her third pregnancy.  That big cow body has nurtured and carried four calves, two singles and last year’s twins.  Why should I be surprised that it’s taking a bit longer for her to regain her girlish figure?  I’ve had three children.  I can relate to Rosie’s issues.


I’m trying to be considerate.  New mothers can be sensitive about words like ‘fat.’


Old mothers can be sensitive about the fat words, too.  We make New Year’s resolutions about getting in shape, exercising more, eating healthy, and so forth.


That’s what Rosie and I will  do this year.  We’re going to get in shape.


That should be easy.  We have to keep up with Cocoa.  For behind that sweet, cute face is a devious mind, full of mischielf.