There is a goose in my house. Satan has entered the building.
I’m standing in the living room, eight months pregnant and feeling it, as Satan, our goose, hisses at me. Josh has taken everybody out to Buckholt—my dad and all the kids—to go to the farmer’s market, run some errands, and have ice cream. I stayed home because I felt fat and hot, and my husband sensed I needed some alone time. Considering how grumpy and bad-tempered I was, it didn’t take all that much intuition.
I’d somehow forgotten just howirritablepregnancy can make you. Oh, I know there are those unnatural Instagram moms who wear flowy white dresses and love their pregnancy bodies and somehow manage to shrink back to a size four by the time they’ve left the hospital.
Those women arewrong, and in any case, I am not one of them. Every part of me is swollen and aching—belly, boobs, butt, hips, ankles. Even myfingerslook fat. I had to take off my rings two weeks ago because they were cutting into my flesh like it was bread dough.Ifeel like bread dough, like one massivelump of pillowy, soft dough. Which sounds appetizing, and I feel anything but.
I feel awfulandangry, and now there’s a goose in my house. A goose called Satan.
We are in the process of staring each other down, and three seconds in, I’m already intimidated. The goose’s eyes are beady. Her stare is unblinking. She is in the middle of the living room like she owns the place, and basically, she does. I’m pretty sure there’s no way I’m getting her out on my own.
Why on earth did Josh think it was a good idea to get a goose?
Something else to rail at him about when he gets home. I have a list; because as an eight-month-pregnant, forty-four-year-old woman, I get to have a list. And no one gets to say otherwise. Even Emmy agreed.
“Goose,” I say as commandingly as I can, which is not very much. “Shoo!”
If there were other people present, they would probably say I’m to blame for this fiasco. I foolishly left the door propped open when I was taking out the trash, because yes, I’m nesting. I have a sudden urge to have everythingwaycleaner than it usually is. EvenJackhas commented on it, when he barely noticed our hall bathroom growing mold spores in the tub—and that was only because I’d told the kids they were in charge of cleaning that bathroom, and I wasn’t even going to go into it. I lived to regret such an ill-thought-out challenge.
Anyway, all that aside, it’s now me and Satan, and Satan isn’t moving. She’s already pooped her green goose poop on the carpet. And, if I’m honest, she lookssmugabout it. She stands her ground in the middle of the living room, her beady stare seeming to dare me to try to get her to move. I’ve been flown at and pecked at by her before, and I really have zero desire to experience that again. Why do people even get geese? And why was Mother Goose even a thing when geese are clearly evil?
“Goose,” I say, and she blinks. “Satan,” I amend threateningly, although I doubt she even knows her own name. “Satan, getoutof here!” To my surprise, she takes a step toward the door. I practically stumble out of the way to clear her path. “Satan,go!” I holler. “Go, Satan, go!”
“Hello…”
The sound of a man’s voice at the door has me whirling around, which is not a nimble maneuver when you’re in my blessed state. I clutch my belly as Pastor Todd steps into my house. Oh, good Lord. He heard me calling on Satan.
“Pastor Todd!” My voice comes out somewhere between a warble and a chirp. “Um… I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I can see that,” Pastor Todd remarks, his brown eyes crinkling. He’s a nice guy in his late thirties, with a friendly, down-to-earth wife and three burly blond boys who are between the ages of ten and sixteen and are fearsomely good at just about every sport. I’ve never actuallyspokento him before, though, besides to thank him for his sermon before I beat a hasty retreat from church.
The truth is, I’m scared of him and his pastor status. He doesn’t make a big deal of it, he’s not at all holier-than-thou, but every time I’ve come within fifteen feet of him, I straighten up like I’m on military parade and get a look on my face as if I’m about to have my uniform inspected. Josh has noticed and joked about it, much to my embarrassment. He’s able to shoot the breeze with our pastor while I stammer out congratulations for giving a good sermon, something I learned later isn’t really the done thing.
“It’s not a performance,” Emmy explained kindly when she overheard my congratulatory bumbling. “You could thank him instead.”
That’s what I’ve done every Sunday since, somewhat robotically.
And now he’s in my house, along with a goose named Satan.
This is not a situation I am enjoying finding myself in, especially when I’m as pregnant as I am. I feel like anything could happen.
“Do you need help?” Pastor Todd asked with a nod toward the goose. “Let me guess… that’s Satan?”
“Umm… yes.” I feel like I should apologize. Is it blasphemous to call your goose Satan?
“Good name,” he remarks.
I breathe a silent sigh of relief. Blasphemy crisis averted.
“Do you mind if I try?” he asks.
I sweep my arm in a be-my-guest gesture. “Please.”
Pastor Todd walks toward the goose authoritatively, ignoring its hissing and flapping of wings, and within approximately ten seconds, he’s got the goose outside, and the door is closed.
I stare at him in amazed admiration. “Wow,” I say. “That’s like, a gift of the Spirit.”
Pastor Todd lets out a booming laugh, and I blush. Did I just make a Christian joke? Is that even a thing?
