College boy Reeve came home last night for a short visit (has a voice competition in Albuquerque today), ostensibly to see us, but I’m guessing the fact that we have two-week-old kittens here didn’t hurt.
It’s wonderful to see him, or, more accurately, to hug him. In this day and age of Skype and email and Facebook and cell phones, we’re usually in pretty close touch. But electronic communication, though immediate, and definitely a good thing, is no substitute for everyday interaction, lovely moments of low-key hangout time, and the very real physical presence of our child.
So why do they call it being in touch? . . .
Since Reeve’s room has been converted into the nursery (When mama cat Twombly, gave birth under his bed—a convenient choice, since, other than the bathroom, Reeve’s room is the only one in the house with a door—we sealed the room off to keep the other feline residents out until the kittens are bigger.), Reeve is sleeping on the fold-out futon couch in the main room where Tim and I sleep, on another fold-out futon couch. (There’s just 10 feet and a book case between the two couches, so it occurs to me this is kind of like a grownup variation on cosleeping.)
Anyway, this morning, I awoke to hear Brutus (our 2-year-old tabby), meowing adamantly / persistenly, and Reeve mumbling, “Brutus. No.” and “Don’t poke me!” and then, “What is it, boy? What’s that? . . . Someone’s stuck in a well!? . . .”
You can’t get that on Facebook.
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Top photo: the spare bed/couch/futon in our front room.
Above: Can’t believe I have now actually referenced Lassie twice in this blog . . .
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Ever had one of those dreams where you suddenly realize you just had a baby? Didn’t even know you were pregnant, maybe gave birth in the bathroom, like those stories of uneducated high school girls who went to the loo with a tummy ache and then Shazam! New baby!)?
So last week Tim and I pretty much simultaneously came to the same eleventh-hour conclusion: boy, that kitty sure is FLUFFY . . . Because she’s never allowed us to pick her up, it just didn’t seem that obvious. (Seems laughable, now, our cluelessness. That large, lumpy “just went shoplifting” midsection. . .)
And then panicking when we realized she wouldn’t go near the box, wouldn’t let us catch her to put her in the box, kept retreating to hide under the bed. We were afraid her fear of us would override her young maternal instinct, nervous that we’d screwed everything up by moving the kittens . . . That old familiar parental panic: What have I done?! I don’t know what to do!
I’m lying on my back in the dark, in bed, arms at my sides, covers up to my chin. Brutus, our two-year-old orange tabby, climbs onto my chest, scooting up so that his face is close to mine. Through the thick comforter, I can feel his warmth from my belly to my neck. He is purring. I’m effectively pinned by his weight and my sense of his affection, his catness.
It’s hard to remember now, but shortly after Brutus first showed up, I awoke in the early hours and saw that he was sleeping with our cats on the daybed where they congregate (a.k.a. “the kitty divan”). As I crept over to get a better look, Brutus awoke, saw me, and leapt to the floor, heading for the door. I bent down and (not really thinking) scooped him up, wanting to reassure him, I guess. Well, 14 puncture wounds and a couple of days later, I was at the urgent care clinic with swollen purple fingers, getting shots. (Afterwards, I found online a site where an expert likened handling a feral kitten to wrestling with an animated cactus. Believe it.)
© 2009 Mothering Magazine