blogthecat

The Chosen One

How does one teddy become The One? How does he go from teddy to Teddy?

Is it the way his fur tumbles into his eyes? His slightly sad and bereft expression? Is it his smell—does he just beg to be scrunched up to a slobbery little face and inhaled? Does he seem somehow more real than the countless other stuffed candidates lined up for the job?

Whatever the reason, Oliver chose his Teddy two days ago suddenly and fiercely. He calls for Teddy anxiously when he’s gone missing (“de-DEH!”). He’s branded Teddy with an avocado french kiss. He crawls with Teddy clenched in one fist, dragging him facedown across the floor. Today he pitched Teddy out of the stroller just so he could say “uh-oh!’ with pretend surprise. Teddy felt the stroller wheels—at least two of them—before I could rescue him (and place him right back with his loving tormentor). Teddy then played with Oliver in the park, which for Teddy meant a lot of sand sandwiches and not much else. Teddy is already looking ragged after a two-day reign.

But I know he’s happy. This is the fate every stuffed animal dreams of. Every blight, every ground-in clump of dirt, every tear and new deformity, all these are badges of honor. To be loved hard is the lot of every Teddy.

Moment

Hey baby look at us in this field full of tiny daisies. Pender Island, BC.

Hazy sky, lazy sun. No hike because you screamed as only you can scream and begged us to take you out, out, out of that awful backpack. Out you came into our arms. To the car. To the school. To the playground. You got dirty. Slipped a rock into your mouth. Found a cigarette butt, presented it to us with pride. Looked for anything round just so you could declare it “bah.” Finally your eyes glazed over. We found the softest grass. Spread the blankets. Nestled in. Your hand traced my face for a while. Then went quiet. Asleep. Asleep among the tiny daisies on Pender Island.

My little grey spirit

My baby Franny passed away last month. She had been losing weight but showed no signs of pain. She was slower and quieter, but she still came down every night at 8 pm to yell at me and eat bites of my dinner beside me. Lately, she was turning up her nose at nothing—pizza, bread, pasta, whatever. As long as I was eating it, she wanted it. Then we would cuddle. No one could cuddle like Fran.

For the last half-year or so, she stole her time with me at night, knowing that Oliver took every ounce of my attention and energy in the day. She knew there was less of me for her, and she accepted this without protest. This made me love her even more than I had before. She asked only that I adore her desperately for a little while at the end of each day. I did so happily and every bit as desperately as she might have hoped for.

I found solace burying my face in Franny’s fur at the end of long days with Oliver, days that—as any mother of a new baby knows—are not only joyful but exhausting. With her, I became a little more just me again, me as me and not as mother too, me as nerves and heart and thoughts and dreams. All these I would pour into her little body, and she received them gratefully.

This cat, this cat was a good cat. This cat was a little part of my soul.

Merry, merry Boxing Day

Though we spent Christmas very quietly this year, with just me, Oliver, Craig, a motley tree, and minimal presents, Christmas was still … that day you’ve been waiting for, preparing for, and knowing you should somehow behave and feel differently on than all the rest of the days of the year. In other words, it was a slightly weird day per usual—parts of it wonderful and parts of it overwhelming and underwhelming all at once. I’m a Boxing Day kind of girl myself, I realized this year.

This Boxing Day, Mr O woke up with a brand new front tooth, which is a source of pride today as opposed to a source of agony yesterday. He is obsessed with wrapping his tongue around it and along his gumline, sending great gobs of spittle in every direction. We are constantly wiping his face and our … everything.

After several bib changes and much wringing out of our own clothing, Craig and I finally got us all out the door to face the blizzard that has enveloped Vancouver this holiday. We popped O in his stroller, mushed through slush and stubborn snowbanks, and made it as far as the IGA before O mounted serious protest. We released him, heaped the groceries onto the stroller, and took turns carrying him to our next destination—lunch at Earl’s with James and Monique.

At lunch, despite the fact that we were noshing during naptime, O was adorable if massively drooly. He stared long, hard, and enviously at Craig’s beef dip sandwich, so we broke of bits of the buttery meat and popped them into his mouth. Between bites, O alernated between gazing adoringly at James and hugging me, cooing contentedly (and wetly) in my ear.

We broke from lunch to face the elements again—the snowfall was only intensifying. I ploughed the stroller along, and Craig carried O, who yelled meaningfully and constantly at the snow—he feels very strongly about it. People smiled and gaped at our babbling (and very loud) boy as they walked by. The stroller threatened to capsize but didn’t, O could have begun crying from tiredness but didn’t, and we all made it home intact and pleasantly whipped from the weather and exertion.

We freed O from his snowsuit, changed him, and plopped him on the bed. I hopped in on the other side, pulled him into me, tugged the flannel sheets and duvet up around us, and breastfed him into dreamland. Above us, snow covered our skylight, letting in only soft, blue light. I looked down upon O—whose cheeks were still flushed and cool from the snow, and who snored lightly and rhythmically—and felt deliriously happy and lucky.

Merry, merry Boxing Day.

Memory making

I don't know where I stand yet on family photography. On the one hand, my dad is a brilliant photographer, and he and my mom have some ridiculously good and beloved family albums as a result. On the other, I like most experiences to happen sans camera interruption or influence. There isn't much time to figure it out, as I was made ruefully aware of today.

Today, I put Oliver in the baby swing at the kids' park for the first time. His dad was in Frankfurt, and his grandparents, cousins, aunts, and uncles live far away. There was only me. Only me to witness his bemusement as I lifted him into the seat, his excitement at being airborne, his wide-eyed surprise upon being swung, and finally his laughter and wild joy at being caught and pushed again, and again, and again. I will never forget the soft fall sun, the darling wisps of fine, blond hair flopping about his face, his eyes crinkled in merriment, and his open-mouthed grin as he floated up and down, away from me, back to me, away, and back, both of us locked in a long, delicious moment of pure, mutual delight.

I may be lugging that camera around a bit more.

If you're lucky and you know it ...

Things are pretty hairy around our place just now. We are racing to meet too many deadlines, readying the apartment for the LD, and walking around a little zombie-like if truth be told. Not in an awful, dreary way—but yes, we are a wee exhausted. So tonight, we decided to try for something halfway normal: push off from our desks at 7:30 p.m.... go shopping for food since the fridge is bare … make an easy but promising recipe from a Jamie Oliver cookbook … sit down at the table like civilized adults.

We get home from the IGA at 8:30 p.m. Craig unloads the groceries. I begin the recipe: Risotto with Roasted Garlic, Thyme, Almonds, and Mascarpone Cheese. I’m well underway when I ask Craig for the thyme. As soon as I say it, I realize it’s the one thing in the $150 shop we forgot. I forgot. Craig’s poured himself a rare bourbon (he’s not drinking very often to keep me company through the pregnancy), and has had one miserly sip.

“I’ll go out again,” he says, though it’s mucky outside and there’s a hockey game on. “Should I pick up anything else?”

I tell him some basil and milk, and apologize absentmindedly.

He comes back while I’m chopping and on the phone with my brother. I point to the recipe book and signal that he should start the risotto-making part of the process, the directions for which, according to our recipe, are on another page. I’m yammering away with Dylan when I notice Craig looking somewhat despondent.

“We don’t have half the ingredients for the basic risotto part of the deal,” he responds to my questioning look. I hadn’t thought to look on that page, thinking it was a matter of rice, butter, and stock, or something equally simple.

I get off the phone, and try to convince him that we can make do with some admittedly paltry substitutions. He heads to the door. Without a scowl or a muttered anything, he heads out again (it’s after 9 p.m. now and his bourbon sits forlornly on the counter, ice all but a memory), waving off my repeated bleats of how awful I am.

When he comes back, I am so tired I have dropped to a chair at the table to chop feebly—no more standing up on my swollen feet. He makes the risotto carefully and quietly, and without the smallest complaint.

At 10 p.m., we sit down for dinner. Brian Browne jazz in the background, dimmed lights, single candle. The most delicious risotto I have ever tasted. Life is good. Very good.

Oasis in a busy day

Ricocheting between errands yesterday, Craig and I fell into a convenience store on Broadway to grab some sustenance, yammering inanely as we so often do. Our thoughts were on our various missions involving setting up the baby’s room (okay, alcove) in some fashion befitting his infant self. Soon, we would be braving the “soul-destroying” (Craig) IKEA experience, and we were already a little hysterical at the prospect.

I loaded our purchases onto the countertop, hardly looking at the man who was serving us, so distracted was I at the time. Gum, juice, and a Cadbury Thins chocolate bar. I was already beginning to turn toward the exit when the storekeeper spoke. He was East Asian and very calm and poised. He looked me in the eyes, then quietly but clearly said, “I wish you good luck. God bless.” Then he glanced down for the briefest second at my tummy, which is now proudly announcing the imminent being within.

I am not religious, but I felt blessed. The man was reverential, polite, and honest. He halted me in my tracks, both physically and in my mind. I looked up at Craig, whose eyes had gone as soft as mine, and … let’s just say we had a moment.

The kindness of strangers. It can be transformative.

Love affair

Time and again, I find it’s the tiniest things that make life worth living. I’ve just torn myself away from a mid-day love fix from Franny, my deeply weird and wonderful cat.

Franny and I found each other seven years ago in Brooklyn. Walking home along a busy main street, I came across a man with a rickety cardboard box at his feet. Three little grey cats hunkered down inside; two were just-born babies, and one was a delicate, shivering mother, stunted in her growth from having gotten pregnant when she was just a kitten herself. I picked the mother up. She buried her head in my shoulder, hiding in my hair. Knowing her babies would find homes more easily than she would, I brought Franny home. She was basically feral.

Even now, Franny is not an easy ticket. Skittish would be a kind description. She flirts with Craig when he has food in his hands, but otherwise, Franny’s limited her sights to me. Even with me, she’s got rules: I can approach her only under certain conditions; she can be brushed only on a certain rug; and though herding me to bed to snuggle is her day’s central pursuit, she will lie only on my left side with her back to me in a tight spoon.

In this position, I stroke her and whisper nonsense into the fur between her ears, all for the reward of her tilting her head back to look at me adoringly through half-closed eyes. Occasionally she’ll push that little head up to my mouth for a kiss, and when I’m incredibly good she will bestow a few licks to my fingers for positive reinforcement. And she will purr … the most relaxing, contented purr, a purr that resonates through me and soothes my every nerve.

This is enough. This is more than enough. But today, I got more. For whatever reason, when I lay down today for a quick rest and read, Fran hopped up on the bed and walked onto me. She looked directly and meaningfully into my eyes (a very rare thing for her to do, face-to-face) and then nudged herself into the crack between my arm and my body. And turned into me. The reverse-spoon! She propped her downy paws up on my chest, and purred herself to the point of sleep. Groggily, she sighed and lowered her head onto my neck. Little snores rumbled out soon after, and I put my book down, too thrilled to concentrate.

For seven years, Fran has been opening up to me, bit by bit. Her trust is hard won, but when she gives it, I feel like the luckiest person on earth.

Miraculous inventions

From time to time, I get excited about certain products or brands. Recent faves include Multigrain Life cereal, those little yogurts with a granola or chocolaty mixture package latched on top, Mac computers (of course), and Bumble & Bumble hair products. But nothing compares to the frenzied gratitude I now feel toward bra extenders.

While my boobs have been growing since I got pregnant, they’ve been doing so slowly and manageably. Until last week. Last week, they mounted an all-out effort to rival Salma Hayek's set when she was pregnant. My bras strained to keep them in, I strained to keep breathing, but inevitably we'd surrender … at restaurants, on planes, wherever, I'd reach up my shirt and unhook that clasp. Nice.

But yesterday, unpacking from a trip to Ontario that had been too busy to accommodate super-size bra shopping, I found a little package of two bra extenders I got from Thyme Maternity about a month back. I had forgotten about this purchase, since at that time, the growth spurt hadn’t struck. I ripped open the package, hooked up a bra, and called Craig in from the other room to do me up.

Oh my god. The relief. For $3.99. I am a product champion.

For more on the indignities of pregnancy boobs, see the entry at the blog a little pregnant. One of the comments to the post is: “I really like the point at which your boobs can help balance a plate on your belly while standing up.” This gives me hope: at some future date, my new boobs may at least be functional. Until then, I will focus on the heaven-sent bra extenders.

Cat wakeup call

My friend Sarah found this on YouTube, and I cannot help but share it despite my post only yesterday about things of a cattish nature. I am still clutching my stomach and broken ribs from laughing.

Attribution for the video: Simon Tofield, whose stuff can be seen at Tandem Films (click "Directors" then "Simon Tofield").

One of my favourite things about the video is the cat's voice: it's not the typical, overused, grating meow, but more of a calm, persistent meow that is quite sure of the outcome.

Thanks for this, Sarah!