Unadulterated Adoration

           My cat adores me.

            I know it first thing in the morning when she meows and taps my shoulder, ready for me to get up.  I know it when I sit down in my recliner and she leaps up to come between me and my laptop.  I know it at bedtime when she parks herself between me and my book and starts licking my chin with her sandpaper tongue.  And I know it in the middle of the night when I turn over and she clambers back on my side, purring loudly.

            Melody purrs in anticipation of being petted.  She purrs for attention.  She throws herself at me whenever I pick up her grooming brush and purrs some more.  She regards me with those yellow-green, adoring eyes.

            Sometimes all that unsought attention drives me crazy.  Sometimes I love it.  The rest of the time I make liberal use of the lint roller to swipe away the remnants of her attention (fur, fur, and more fur).

            Back in September at the animal shelter, Melody chose me to be her human.  I am her chief of staff.  I attend to her needs for food, water, grooming, playtime, and attention.  She is careful to make sure I never forget her for a moment.

            I guess that is the price for unadulterated adoration.

Grandma Bragging Rights

            Last week I saw firsthand that in the two months since my end-of-August visit, Benjamin has learned new and exciting things:

     When Dana signs and asks him, “Do you want to eat?” he touches his finger to his mouth, the sign to eat.

     He gets onto all fours and sometimes moves one knee forward before splatting on the ground.  Or he hangs out in the push-up position, balancing on hands and toes.

     Last Friday, he explored the kitchen for the first time.  I have video to prove it. 

     He is much more intentional with his toys, for instance, operating his Leap Frog music tables in a favored sequence.  Once at the “ABC” song, he looks to me with his hand out, ready for me to start clapping my hands in rhythm with the beat.

     One evening holding him on her lap, Dana says “clapping” as she taps out a beat with her hands.  For the first time, Benjamin claps his hands independently.

            As expected of any two-year-old, Benjamin does have a few less endearing habits as well:

     He grabs the wet wipe straight out of my hand as I attempt to change his diaper.

     He incessantly grinds his teeth. 

     When I pick him up, he tucks his head into my shoulder and chomps down with those razor-sharp teeth.  It’s like a reflex, no harm intended.  But he drew blood once, and I have the scar to prove it.

           

Conversation History

            Looking at the local newspaper, Mom says, “Whidbey Island.  Did we ever live on Whidbey Island?”

            “Yes.  We live there now,” I reply in a cheery voice.

            “Oh.  I had totally forgotten about that.”

            For two days she has talked about the “stitch” in her left side, so I make a doctor’s appointment for her.  That afternoon, as we head out the door and I explain we are going to see the doctor, she asks why. 

“Because your side hurts,” I say.

“It’s not bothering me now,” she tells me.

            The dialogue repeats itself during the ten-minute drive to Freeland and our brief wait at the doctor’s office.  When Dr. O’Neill comes in and asks Mom how she is doing, Mom redirects the question to me:  “How am I doing?”

            Immediately following the uncomfortable poking and prodding of the examination, Mom is sitting on the exam table.  Pressing her left side with her left hand, she helpfully announces to the doctor:  “Maybe you should check out my left side.  It’s bothering me.”

            I forget the topic, but at lunchtime she comments, “My proclivities tend to run in another direction,” while I wonder how this mother of mine who can accurately use “proclivities” in conversation has just asked me if it is July.