PSA from your mother...Don't Fucking Touch Dead Things.

Imagine my girlfriend's surprise when I abruptly interrupted our discussion of half-season vs. full-season cheerleading for Agnes and her other Tiny-aged friend with, "What do you mean you were petting a dead cat?"

All I wanted to know is how I've gotten to the point where that sentence seemed like a perfectly normal thing to fly out of my mouth. There are many times where I catch myself saying or asking something and think, "Am I really saying this?" or "Do I really HAVE to say this?"

Less grotesque than the dead cat situation is the constant reminder I have for Margo in the winter as we get ready for cheer. She's eight so I just keep wondering at what point I can stop saying this but I know currently if I don't there are going to issues.

"Remember to take your pants off before you put on your cheer shoes."

I mean, it seems like common sense but I'll bet you a dollar to a donut that if I didn't say it the shoes would go on with the big, furry fleecy pants still on.

Anyway, back to the dead cat situation.

"We need to come in and wash our hands."

"No you don't. You're playing outside right now, when you come in to stay in then you can wash your hands." Yup, I'm a good mom like that.

"But mama, we need to wash our hands because we petted the dead cat."

"What do you mean you were petting the dead cat?"

"I, I think I gotta run Tess...I'll call you back later."

Yes, right, that's where we left off.

I quickly hung up and began to freak out that one of our neighbor's cats had crossed the Rainbow Bridge in someone's bushes and begin to ponder the psychological issues tied to the fact that Agnes and her little friends thought it was OK to pet the dead cat (note to self: this MIGHT have something to do with the final pettings of Jesse James prior to his burial...but he was in a clean box with a towel...not outside behind someone's bushes).

In their excitement to cross the street to show me kitty Agnes and her buddy collided and there were many tears and some pavement implanted into Agnes's palms. It would have to wait, I was still freaking out about what dead cat they were petting.

We made it up to another neighbor's porch and I didn't notice anything immediately which was good because my neighbor's cats are both huge, like enormous. You wouldn't miss their furry carcases if it was one of them.

They pointed behind the bushes to a pile of stuff. I looked. Might be fur, I thought, could be leaves.

Barefoot, of course, because it would be way too normal if I had shoes on, I lowered myself into the flower bed and gingerly walked on the river rocks to the pile. Yup, it's fur but there's no body...just some matted fur and a few scattered bones. While I was thankful it wasn't Mrs. Tubalub or her other feline friend I was a little more concerned that the three stooges had decided to touch this thing that didn't even resemble any sort of animal at all. Mob mentality of toddlers I guess.

I guess that my greatest moment of parental pride from the situation is that Agnes had the intelligence to come home and wash her hands. That said, you can imagine the shock/horror/surprise when I told Landscape Nazi, the mother of the other two stooges and one of my besties, that her kids had been touching a dead animal. I told her I sent them home to wash their hands while I was washing Agnes's hands.

"WHAT? They never came in to wash their hands! They just came home and ate granola bars," Landscape Nazi yelled.

"I told them too, interesting. You're gonna want to have them do that. I think Agnes came down and snagged a granola bar after I had her wash her hands."

"Yeah, she might have washed them but then D-Man handed her a bar with his unwashed hands!"

Touche...touche indeed.

Suburbian Siren, who is constantly in awe of the never-a-dull-moment life I lead...