So, even though they do not nurse from my teats, these "kittens" of ours have a way of keeping me up all night.
And, btw, since it seems I've been missed, I just went ahead and used the word "teats" right there in the first sentence. Like when John Travolta jammed the needle into Uma Thurman's heart in Pulp Fiction.
I have been running interference between cats and kid and husband, and even though we have wisely decided not to put up a tree this year because starting a fire is low on our list of priorities, they have still found plenty of things to knock over, pounce on, chase and use their claws on. Stripes has taken to crawling under the covers when I'm sound asleep, finding my fingers, and attempting to bite the rings off my fingers. It's my favorite thing, next to Lulu shitting on the kittens' cozy bed and smearing it around the bathroom.
And yet. And yet, I love them madly (well, I'll be honest, Lulu has been walking a pretty tight rope for the last 7 years, so, while I try to show her love and affection, and we take the best care of her that we can, she's on my last good nerve). Bosco is turning into a huge love bug - she snuggles up on my lap when I'm at the computer or reading the paper and she purrs so loud she sounds like a little motorboat. She's also begun to drool when she's happy, which I love, because I don't feel so lonely when I do it. Stripes will give me kisses on my mouth if I pucker up.
That last sentence has officially punted me into crazy old cat lady territory, hasn't it?
In other news: it's cold up here, and expected to get colder this weekend, with rain/ice/snow in the forecast. We're stocking up on firewood and insulating the pipes and hoping to stay safe and dry. We'll probably play some monopoly, if we can't get out to see Santa. I have a feeling that this might be the last year I can get him to go see the guy. Sigh. And even though it makes me sad to think about that being lost, I'm also kind of ready to let it go. Maybe when he knows it's us, the crazy expectation of presentspresentspresents will ease, and he'll just be able to feel the magic of the season - you know, love and goodwill and all that. Or not.
Maybe he'll just be bitterly disappointed and his trust in us to tell him the truth will be shattered forever.
He got a fantastic report card today, the kind that I will be fondly looking at when he's a teenager, I'm sure, but still. I'm popping my buttons a bit, and so is his Dad. His teacher seems to think he's a great kid, and we do too, so perhaps he'll turn out alright.
It's strange - Christmas is rapidly approaching, and I'm not feeling crazy. I'm not sure what's wrong with me. It's usually right about now that I begin to freak out about stuff. Maybe the shitty economy has taken the pressure off. Or maybe I'm just getting better at remembering what's important. I'd like to think that somewhere around age 47 one can begin to acquire some perspective.
I'll tell that to Joe-Henry when he gets the bad news about Santa. "Hang in there, kid. You'll come out of it in 40 more years or so!".