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In case anyone's wondering what that little guy on the floor is, here's what the real one looks like:

Owlbear? Owlbear?

I just found him at the superstore one day and bought him on a whim. He didn't come with any packaging or labels, other than the tag that asserted that he contains some pre- and some post-consumer material.

Whatever he is, he hangs out on the floor of our living room. Our rabbit, Kettle, likes to groom him. I choose to believe he is an owlbear chickcub.

(Tuesday morning, INT: NP and JP's home, cuddling on the couch)

NP: John, are we... we're okay, right?
JP: I think we are. I was under the impression that we were, until you said that just now. Do you know something I don't?
NP: I just... I don't know if I feel ready. I don't know if I'm really prepared to be a mother, to create a human life.
JP: You have your job. It's a tough job, but it's steady and you've got benefits. I have my disability payments. We have this place to live, rent free. Your mom brings us a casserole if I so much as sneeze funny.
JP: We both come from a long line of humans who have successfully done this. Literally billions of people have given birth and nurtured human infants before us, and a lot of them wrote down their experiences.
JP: We have resources, we have security, we have redundancies and backup plans and access to the very pinnacle of modern biological and psychological science.
JP: Most importantly, we have each other. You and I are better prepared to raise a child than the vast majority of people who have ever raised a child in history.
NP: I know you're trying to make me feel better about us, but now I'm just worried about the rest of the species. If this is what more-prepared-than-average feels like, the average person is frigging screwed.