Expanding the Familia
For everyone who thought the title implied pregnancy, you are sick individuals who are officially off the Christmas card list. Seriously, have you read ANY of the previous blogs? I employ about six different kinds of birth control just to prevent that kind of thing from happening, and your bad juju just thinking it and giggling is not appreciated.
Rather, the familia was recently expanded with the addition of pets. For about six months now Gabe has been telling random strangers everywhere we go that "we don't have any pets, just our friend dog Ruby." And this is true. Our lovely neighbor, Shirley, has a boxer named Ruby. Shirley is a retired grandma of about a million grandkids, none of whom live within a several hour radius, and enjoys time with my boys. This may be a sign of the onset of dementia. Whenever she says they can come over I check to see if she's wearing her underwear on the outside, or has been styling her hair with glue or something, but she seems ok so far. There is the added perk for Gabe that she's a senior citizen, and Gabe is like a three year old pimp with old ladies. Seriously, when we used to visit my grandma in her retirement facility the kid was only lacking a purple zoot suit and a cane. He strutted up to the ladies who knew exactly when we visited (Friday, after gymnastics) and waited on the front porch for the arrival of the two little boys who would talk to them. He would walk the line, grinning, flirting, occasionally hopping INTO their wheelchairs with them, kissing cheeks and making the old ladies swoon. It was a little creepy, but totally endearing to see him with groupies that followed down the halls like a pack of wheelchair and walker bound teenagers. Thank God they stopped short of throwing any panties, since that probably would have involved Depends.
But I digress. Given Gabe's tendency to out us as piss poor parents who won't even get their kids a pet, and our own fervent beliefs that children do in fact benefit from having pets, we have as of late taken the matter into consideration. We had pets with the older kids. We had a fantastic, although retarded, Great Dane. We had a brilliant, but horrible, Blood Hound. We had cats, we had fish, we had rats, and we even had an iguana at one point. But for several years we have not had pets, given my inability to keep up with even one more thing.
We talked about dogs. But given the fact we are gone for over 12 hours of the day four days a week, we were unwilling to get a pet that would be abandoned and lonely. The boys asked about mice, about fish, about chinchillas...the pressure was mounting. Every time a random stranger looked at me and shook a head sadly that my poor child had only a "friend dog" I became a bit more frantic for a solution. And then...serendipity.
I went into a local feed store with a friend who needed to return something. The store also houses cats for adoption by the local shelter. Cats seem pretty ideal to me, in the sense they can be left alone, they are relatively independent, and they can be cuddled slightly more than a mouse or fish. But there were many things to take into consideration. To prevent loneliness, there should be two. To survive la casa, these would have to be tough cats. To tolerate little boys, they should probably be young enough to adapt. To prevent being squished entirely a la Lenny, Of Mice and Men style, they couldn't be tiny. And to truly fit in they needed unique personalities.
In the cages were a wide assortment of cats. There was a beautiful little long hair kitten, super mild, didn't even cry, just wanted a lap to sit on. No way. Although I made a mental note to tell Shirley. She has the onset of crazy cat lady, since she's accumulating them pretty rapidly these days. This guy had senior citizen companion written all over him. I needed someone who could escape. There were several adult cats, with things written on their paperwork like "needs to be an only pet" (nope, no room for princesses in la casa) and "should be ok with children" (ummmm, should? I feel like that leaves a little room for doubt between yes is ok or no, invest in pediatric eye patches).
In the first cage, however, were two brother kittens. Primarily black, one with white paws, two remaining of the original three taken from a stray, fixed and put up for adoption. So yes, they were born feral, but most of the time the wild boys act like they were too. The kittens were about four months old, too old to be squished, too young to have any real preconceived notions about children. And they were WILD. They were perfect.
Which is how, the next morning, I found myself returning to the feed store to pick up two surprise kittens for the boys. The trip started fantastic, with me having to wait for what felt like a very long time while staff wrapped up their conversation, in front of me and another customer, about how you never know much about herpes until you get it. I made a mental note to wash with bleach after leaving. When it was finally my turn to talk and I made it clear I was there to pick up the little black kittens the male staff looked at me and said "God bless you, ma'am."
That should have been the first clue.
I made all the purchases I would need, and went with the female staff to get the kittens from the cage. Her nervousness should have been the second clue. But she grabbed them both with relative ease and put them in the box. She started to breathe a sigh of relief, but apparently hadn't locked the top of the carrier in place which is how they were able to shoot out the top, a blur of black fur, and behind the other cat cages. They scaled the back of the cages, inciting riotous behavior in the other trapped felines. The store was suddenly alive with the yowling, hissing and meowing of cats of various sizes and ages, while my two little devils hopped deftly across the tops of the barred enclosures. The average pet owner would have probably thought twice. I felt reaffirmed in the knowledge they were, in fact, perfect.
At home, we opened the carrier in the bathroom, where the kittens would spend their first day or so "adapting." They again launched vertically, scaling towels and bathroom furniture with ease. The boys laughed hysterically, and I knew they'd be ok. The solid black kitten was named Black Panther by Gavin, given his climbing tendencies. I smiled a little inside, reflecting back on Soul on Ice and Eldridge Cleaver rolling in his grave that my little albino would blaspheme his organization. Gabe really wanted to name the other one Peter Parker, but I had a bad feeling that would be abbreviated to PP. He happily decided on his backup name, Cocoa. So that kitten is named the same as about 13 of Gabe's stuffed animals, none of whom are brown. But it also makes me smile.
We have had the kittens almost a full week now. Gradually, they are getting closer to letting people touch them without having to trap them and force them. Sure, we all look like we've been breeding porcupines, but everyone seems to agree they are a pretty solid addition to la casa. They taunt the boys into chasing them, purr when captured, and wrestle harder than even the wild boys. Testosterone has been magnified, and slowly but surely I feel myself adapting to the total absence of estrogen. Now when we go out Gabe grabs random strangers and tells them "Excuse me, we have two kittens and they're REAL!" Yeah, the subject of Gabe's imaginary pets and friends is a subject for another day. But I feel totally at peace, because now people just look at me like my kid is crazy instead of at me like I'm a bad parent.
Until next time.
Rather, the familia was recently expanded with the addition of pets. For about six months now Gabe has been telling random strangers everywhere we go that "we don't have any pets, just our friend dog Ruby." And this is true. Our lovely neighbor, Shirley, has a boxer named Ruby. Shirley is a retired grandma of about a million grandkids, none of whom live within a several hour radius, and enjoys time with my boys. This may be a sign of the onset of dementia. Whenever she says they can come over I check to see if she's wearing her underwear on the outside, or has been styling her hair with glue or something, but she seems ok so far. There is the added perk for Gabe that she's a senior citizen, and Gabe is like a three year old pimp with old ladies. Seriously, when we used to visit my grandma in her retirement facility the kid was only lacking a purple zoot suit and a cane. He strutted up to the ladies who knew exactly when we visited (Friday, after gymnastics) and waited on the front porch for the arrival of the two little boys who would talk to them. He would walk the line, grinning, flirting, occasionally hopping INTO their wheelchairs with them, kissing cheeks and making the old ladies swoon. It was a little creepy, but totally endearing to see him with groupies that followed down the halls like a pack of wheelchair and walker bound teenagers. Thank God they stopped short of throwing any panties, since that probably would have involved Depends.
But I digress. Given Gabe's tendency to out us as piss poor parents who won't even get their kids a pet, and our own fervent beliefs that children do in fact benefit from having pets, we have as of late taken the matter into consideration. We had pets with the older kids. We had a fantastic, although retarded, Great Dane. We had a brilliant, but horrible, Blood Hound. We had cats, we had fish, we had rats, and we even had an iguana at one point. But for several years we have not had pets, given my inability to keep up with even one more thing.
We talked about dogs. But given the fact we are gone for over 12 hours of the day four days a week, we were unwilling to get a pet that would be abandoned and lonely. The boys asked about mice, about fish, about chinchillas...the pressure was mounting. Every time a random stranger looked at me and shook a head sadly that my poor child had only a "friend dog" I became a bit more frantic for a solution. And then...serendipity.
I went into a local feed store with a friend who needed to return something. The store also houses cats for adoption by the local shelter. Cats seem pretty ideal to me, in the sense they can be left alone, they are relatively independent, and they can be cuddled slightly more than a mouse or fish. But there were many things to take into consideration. To prevent loneliness, there should be two. To survive la casa, these would have to be tough cats. To tolerate little boys, they should probably be young enough to adapt. To prevent being squished entirely a la Lenny, Of Mice and Men style, they couldn't be tiny. And to truly fit in they needed unique personalities.
In the cages were a wide assortment of cats. There was a beautiful little long hair kitten, super mild, didn't even cry, just wanted a lap to sit on. No way. Although I made a mental note to tell Shirley. She has the onset of crazy cat lady, since she's accumulating them pretty rapidly these days. This guy had senior citizen companion written all over him. I needed someone who could escape. There were several adult cats, with things written on their paperwork like "needs to be an only pet" (nope, no room for princesses in la casa) and "should be ok with children" (ummmm, should? I feel like that leaves a little room for doubt between yes is ok or no, invest in pediatric eye patches).
In the first cage, however, were two brother kittens. Primarily black, one with white paws, two remaining of the original three taken from a stray, fixed and put up for adoption. So yes, they were born feral, but most of the time the wild boys act like they were too. The kittens were about four months old, too old to be squished, too young to have any real preconceived notions about children. And they were WILD. They were perfect.
Which is how, the next morning, I found myself returning to the feed store to pick up two surprise kittens for the boys. The trip started fantastic, with me having to wait for what felt like a very long time while staff wrapped up their conversation, in front of me and another customer, about how you never know much about herpes until you get it. I made a mental note to wash with bleach after leaving. When it was finally my turn to talk and I made it clear I was there to pick up the little black kittens the male staff looked at me and said "God bless you, ma'am."
That should have been the first clue.
I made all the purchases I would need, and went with the female staff to get the kittens from the cage. Her nervousness should have been the second clue. But she grabbed them both with relative ease and put them in the box. She started to breathe a sigh of relief, but apparently hadn't locked the top of the carrier in place which is how they were able to shoot out the top, a blur of black fur, and behind the other cat cages. They scaled the back of the cages, inciting riotous behavior in the other trapped felines. The store was suddenly alive with the yowling, hissing and meowing of cats of various sizes and ages, while my two little devils hopped deftly across the tops of the barred enclosures. The average pet owner would have probably thought twice. I felt reaffirmed in the knowledge they were, in fact, perfect.
At home, we opened the carrier in the bathroom, where the kittens would spend their first day or so "adapting." They again launched vertically, scaling towels and bathroom furniture with ease. The boys laughed hysterically, and I knew they'd be ok. The solid black kitten was named Black Panther by Gavin, given his climbing tendencies. I smiled a little inside, reflecting back on Soul on Ice and Eldridge Cleaver rolling in his grave that my little albino would blaspheme his organization. Gabe really wanted to name the other one Peter Parker, but I had a bad feeling that would be abbreviated to PP. He happily decided on his backup name, Cocoa. So that kitten is named the same as about 13 of Gabe's stuffed animals, none of whom are brown. But it also makes me smile.
We have had the kittens almost a full week now. Gradually, they are getting closer to letting people touch them without having to trap them and force them. Sure, we all look like we've been breeding porcupines, but everyone seems to agree they are a pretty solid addition to la casa. They taunt the boys into chasing them, purr when captured, and wrestle harder than even the wild boys. Testosterone has been magnified, and slowly but surely I feel myself adapting to the total absence of estrogen. Now when we go out Gabe grabs random strangers and tells them "Excuse me, we have two kittens and they're REAL!" Yeah, the subject of Gabe's imaginary pets and friends is a subject for another day. But I feel totally at peace, because now people just look at me like my kid is crazy instead of at me like I'm a bad parent.
Until next time.
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