I am living with a bunch of addicts. And I am the enabler.

My name is Jenn and I enable.

My cat? She gets two doses of thyroid medication per day: tuna flavoured. She has taken to stalking me [or, in the event that I am out, Mr.Q] in anticipation of her next fishy-goodness dose of the stuff.

My dog? He gets a bi-weekly shot of cartrophen for his achy hips. By the end of the two weeks, withdrawal is beginning to set in and he is cranky, sullen and clingy. To help? We are looking at increasing his dosage or frequency. Yeah. Explain that to the nice men in uniform who find used syringes in my garbage…

My husband? Addicted to expensive chocolate. Granted, it’s the only chocolate that he can eat without shredding his intestines [convenient, no?], but that – in the world of supply and demand – only makes it all the more necessary. Do I attempt to curb his indulgences or monitor his weekly consumption? Hell no: I’m right in there whining if the stash gets low.

And, finally, my daughter. She is addicted to boob. Forget my own personal trauma of going back to work in a few short weeks; this girl will be lost. Now there are times when she is just plain hungry and there are times when she is just plain bored and pissing around. But there are times when is unwaveringly fixated on getting her next hit and dissolves into utter ecstasy within moments of the realisation of her goal. Her eyelids flutter, her eyes roll back a little and she relaxes into the bliss. This is not a hungry thing. This is a must have boob NOW thing. I don’t get it. Maybe Mr.Q does. Maybe it’s a comfort thing, a teething thing or a generic phase.

But I’m worried it may be environmental. She is, after all, in a house full of beings with vices. And I’m right in there providing easy access for all of them.

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