In & Out - A Kittyish Decision

The forecast today called for 25% chance of rain with thunderstorms in the afternoon. I always read the forecast to The Girl when I wake her in the morning – it’s to encourage her to get out of bed. Mostly it works. She’s smallish and can’t quite reach me when she takes a wild swing in my direction without sitting up first. In order to shut me up, she is forced to get up first. Sad, but true.

That’s not the point of my story, however. Just because The Girl gave in and got up doesn’t mean Jingles was convinced. She had a lovely warm spot snuggled at the foot of The Girl’s bed – a nest between a stuffed octopus, turtle, and manta ray (more commonly called a “sea flap-flap”). The Girl has a plush nautical theme going on, she sleeps with a blue whale. Again, beside the point.

I pet Jingles and gave her the hourly forecast, earning a glancing blow from my daughter as she stomped around her room gathering her clothes. The upshot was: I had to convince the cat to go outside this morning to kitty it up before it rained this afternoon. Yes, kitty is now a verb.

Oddly, it took some work to convince that cat to go outside. “Now or never” doesn’t usually work, but it did this time and she went off, gallivanting around the neighborhood, trying to lose her collar again. Two hours later, it started raining. Earlier than forecasted, but not hard. She wouldn’t come in. Jingles sat on the walk up to our door, staring at me as I now tried to convince her she’d had enough kittying and it was time to come in. Then she ran off. Little brat.

Harder rain and the crack of thunder proved more convincing than I was and Jingles finally came in, tracking little muddy kitty-prints on my tile entry. Brat. I do have solace in the knowledge the downpour is temporary. The rain will cease and she will be at my door again demanding to go out. I will point to those muddy paw prints and laugh evilly as I refuse to open the door. Because I’m a trite, little person who punishes the cat for doing what she does. Then The Girl will let her out as soon as my back is turned.

It’s nice to be able to take comfort in the predictable things in life.

A Whale Of A Time

I have the most interesting conversations with my son. I’m sure part of it is because he’s fifteen – that has to be a factor. Much of the oddity of our conversations stems from the sheer amount of time he spends dwelling on virtual high speed car chases, virtual crime, or zombies – real or virtual. I suppose it depends on how you define real, but I’ll say Hollywood based instead of X-Box based in that scenario. He’s not terribly interested in Hollywood inspired car chases or crime, it’s not realistic enough for him.

All that being said, The Boy and I sat down for a voluntary chat. It was a rare occurrence. No talk of school, spending too much time playing video games, picking on his sister, staying up late, the state of his room, etc. Instead, we discussed the secret boy-chatter he engages in with his friends online late at night. On one hand, I feel privileged; on the other, I really hoped for more.  The conversation went something like this:

Boy: …so we keep arguing about what’s the best weapon or vehicle, and you can only choose three –

Me: For what scenario?

Boy: Anything

Me: Zombies or whatever? That hardly seems fair. (I thought I was empathizing, but that just shows you I didn’t really understand the problem at all)

Boy: Doesn’t matter, Mom. Three weapons, three vehicles

Me: Fine. Anything? No limits?

Boy: No. Like I want the Portal Gun

Me: The what?

Boy: Portal Gun. From Portal. You know, Portal?

Me: No.

Boy: (Exasperated sigh)

Me: We could play and you could teach me

Boy: No.

Me: (Sigh) Fine. So any weapon?

Boy: Yes (with an edge of impatience as if he can’t believe his mother is so dense she can’t quite grasp this)

Me: I choose the Death Star

Boy: (Thoughtful pause) Oh

Score one for parents.

Now, as I won one with The Boy, I lost one with The Girl, which is sad because usually I manage to hold my own with her.

It started innocently enough with Darth Jingles staying out for three nights in a row. I was actually starting to get worried. The Girl missed her fluffy companion to snuggle and plot the demise of neighbors with. Mostly to snuggle with. She mentioned missing the face snuggles while we were Minecrafting together. (Hey, it’s a verb!)

Concerned for my daughter’s state of mind (rightfully so considering she was building a moat of lava around what was previously an idyllic little town full of tiny cute houses and flower gardens) I picked up her stuffed sea turtle and started rubbing it against her face, much the same way Jingles rubs her face against The Girl in the morning to say hello.

The Girl didn’t appreciate the comforting gesture and smacked me in the face with a whale. Okay, it was a stuffed whale. But it was a stuffed blue whale – that makes it a miniature plush version of something really big, and it’s the thought that counts.