Small Unauthorized Mammal

This is not my cat sitting on my husband.

My 17 year old brother, who by virtue of his age, is a little drain bramaged, err.. brain damaged.   He brought home an unauthorized kitten.  An authorized kitten is trouble enough, but an unauthorized kitten is another thing all together, especially when said unauthorized kitten is found when one is going into the aforementioned brain damaged person's room with the expectation that it is free of small mammals.  In other circumstances, this would be a reasonable expectation, but NOTHING is a reasonable expectation when it comes to the 17 year old male homo-sapiens.   He keeps his clean laundry in his bed, and leaves his dresser empty.  His dresser is used to pile dirty dishes.

So, small unauthorized kitten waltzes out into the rest of the house.  This delights my small girl child and her slightly less small friend.  They proceed to pop the kitten into a laundry basket and haul it around the house.  These are very pleased small girl children.   The promptly named him Skittles, because "he skittles around the place."  I, for my part, do not name the kitten, because to name the kitten is to own a kitten.  For a variety of very legitimate reasons, I am not interested in owning a kitten.  If I had wanted a kitten, I would have brought one home myself!

The dog, Kona, also appears delighted.  She is doing the whole play bow routine and bounding around the house.  She was 120 lbs of pure joy.  She has probably named the kitten, she loves the kitten, she loves everything, everything is made for love!!!  At some point, our adult female cat Shzung, is exposed to the small mammal.  She most definitely has not named the kitten, she hates the kitten, she hates everything, everything is made for hate!!! This kitten is not amused by any of this and does an excellent miniature version of "the Halloween" cat, arched, puffed and hissing.  He really seem unimpressed with all of us, as if he could be picky.

Fast forward a few (writers note: unauthorized kitten just jumped on the lap top and stomped "000" into the middle of this sentence) days, the small mammal is stalking around the house, attacking ankles, bossing my 120 lb dog away from her food dish, chasing Shzung into the basement, trying to eat my cereal, licking up left over spaghetti sauce, and generally owning the place.  Meanwhile, my brother has named the unauthorized kitten "Jack," but "Only if we get to keep him," says the brother.   Ha!  We're not even sure we want to keep my brother!

So, back to the kitten, what I have found very intriguing about him is that he doesn't seem to realize he is small.  As far as he is concerned, he owns me, my house, my animals and my family.  He is offended when I don't allow him on the kitchen table, or to dig his claws into my calves, or dash into the back yard, or pick on Shzung.  Which has lead me to a thought.  What would life be like if I didn't realize I was small?  Not small in physical stature (which I am, and I totally realize that.  The only thing being unaware of my physical stature would lead to is constant frustration that I was inexplicably unable to reach the top shelves) but small as in limiting myself or my ideas about what my life might be.  What if I stopped limiting myself?  What would I do, what would my life be like, what would I do with myself?  What would you do?  I am going to take an art class. 

There is a Basketball in the Bathtub and Other Thoughts on Parenting

Written in May, 2009

I am an expert in parenting, which I find hilarious because I have one child, she is only two years old and she watched 11, eleven, episodes of Dora the Explorer today. She watched 253 minutes of animated television. You don't have to be a parenting expert to think that maybe, just maybe, 11 episodes of Dora is about 10 episodes too many for a two year old. But it goes to show that parenting, like many life experiences is not what you expect. It is not even not what you expect. It is some other animal entirely. An animal that lives in some other universe that your feeble mind could never in its wildest dreams conjure up. I knew she would be her own person but I expected her to be, well, a little more like me but a lot less like me. Who knew I was so freakin' stubborn and moody? Besides that random genetic component (Aden, I am so sorry you have your father's skin and your mother's short legs, I'm sure you'll learn to cope. If not, there is always therapy, I can make some good recommendations.), the other wild card is your co-parent, someone who grew up different than you, has a different idea about what is important and in my case is NOT a parenting expert. He is awesome with her but we have wildly differing philosophies at times. My husband's happiest childhood memories involve movies and he probably spent 3/4 of his life with only the TV or his thoughts as companions. He has a sleep disorder and it has invovled many hours awake while the rest of the world was asleep. Given that frame of reference 11 episodes of Dora is completely fine, in fact, it is probably beneficial. After all, it is educational. And then there is food. Or rather, the food our daughter eats. I do not consider PBJ's, cheetos and popsicles to be ideal toddler food. I want her eating green beans, pasta and milk. She knows what is in a donut box and I had to move our small stash of chocolate because she remembered where we kept it and would help herself. She said "coke" before "Poppa." Her mother, who tends to be more of a health freak and less of a junk food junkie is afraid the battle for healthy eating habits will by lost. Who can compete with High Fructose Corn Syrup? I love screaming fits because she wants to have the 3rd popsicle of the day. It all just goes to demonstrate STRONGLY that I am not really in control of anything, which is why there is a basketball in my bathtub. Control freak here thinks all play things should be carefully stored in their designated spot. Just to be clear, the bathtub is not the basketball's designated spot. Control freak also did not buy the basketball as she tends to buy toys that are developmentally appropriate. A WNBA-sized basketball purchased before the child could walk doesn't quite qualify as developmentally appropriate. But, "what the hell?", I say. Aden likes it and its fun to have in the bathtub apparently. So, I am trying to make sure we hit the high points (treat other's with respect, etc, etc) and assume that, in the words of my friend Martha, "She won't be doing this when she is 15."

Haiku