Mews and Musings

Week 12 of our pregnancy has rolled around, and I roll with it, from one side to the other in the night, with all the tenacity of a hen on a spit and the effectiveness of a pallid pancake flipped repeatedly in a too-cool pan. I'm trying to teach myself to sleep on my left side before the necessity of a swelling belly forces the issue, but I have met with only scant success, accompanied by newly-sore hips. God bless the doctor who told me both that my nighttime self-torture was unnecessary for the present and that the right side was as good as the left; God bless him, but I am nothing if not persistent, and so I flop repeatedly most nights, marking a physical boundary between bouts of strange dreams.

Lost in the nightly shuffle is MooMoo, my once-faithful mewing belly warmer. For a while she just scolded when I disturbed her rest, prompting me to whisper little apologies in my half-sleep, but about 2 weeks ago she grew weary of my tossing and decided to sleep next to Daniel. Apparently he wasn't a much better solution, because she has since given up on the humans altogether and has reached a tenuous peace accord with Monte. I wasn't there when they drew up the treaty, but I imagine the document commemorating the concord would read something like this:

"We the cats of the house, in order to form a more perfect night's sleep, establish purring and ensure domestic tranquility... do agree not to reduce each other to shreds of fur, to tolerate occasional furtive butt sniffing and to sleep together on the futon, provided that neither one of us creeps closer than 14.5 inches in proximity, except to execute the aforementioned sniffing when sanctioned by an excess of curiosity and when not impinging on the personal comfort or perceived safety of the other."

And so, while I generally don't get up to check on them in the middle of the night, I can see them in my mind's eye as surely as if I were there observing: Monte an extra-large black Bundt cake with a head, and MooMoo a furry, dark, dainty loaf of sweet bread, sleeping contentedly on their disheveled new bed of choice. One of them will have established a claim on Daniel's jacket, and the other will settle for the blanket I use to keep myself warm when sleep evades me and I give up on finding it, but they will both be there in some softly snoring configuration.

At first I was a little bit sad. I had grown so used to MooMoo's soothing presence at night, but then I realized that this arrangement is actually ideal. Assuming that our little princess cat is dethroned in about six month's time by a crying, wriggling, cooing, wrinkled human infant, MooMoo's days on the bed (and in our room) are numbered anyway. It's better this way: she preserves the dignity of self-will that is essential to the feline, and I toss unfettered under the suddenly lighter covers.

Our mostly cat-free sleep comes to an end about the time my need to answer nature's call outweighs my desire for a warm bed. With my first stirring comes the thump indicating that Monte has dismounted the futon, with MooMoo slinking silently behind. For a while, Monte will be content to pin Daniel's chest to the bed and demand a few caresses which he rewards with voluminous purring. But then he grows restless and begins his ritual morning trampling. If he starts his "wake up the humans" routine too early, he often finds himself unceremoniously dumped behind a closed door. If, however, he times it right, he's rewarded with breakfast, so most mornings it must seem worth the gamble.

After breakfast, which MooMoo sometimes shuns, the cats enjoy a little stare-down on the stairs. MooMoo perches at the far end of the top landing, and Monte crouches at the opposite end of the second step down, where they sit for several minutes. I confess that I don't know what this accomplishes, but it is apparently as important as all of the other rituals in their lives, such as the nightly chase that thunders through the house.

I see in the cats the importance of order and predictability in everyday life. Cats are unsettled by the most innocuous of changes, for better or for worse, and they crave the comfort of knowing what to expect from life. I'm not much different, really. I find changes in my life and body to be somewhat rattling, even as I embrace them.

Our own lives have grown quieter and the cats have adjusted their lifestyle to match. I think, perhaps, we humans talk somewhat less than we used to. However, we tend not to waste words, and I dare say we understand more. Some things don't need explaining, like why we both cried the first time we saw that Gerber commercial in which parents proclaim their commitment to their unborn or newborn babies. Some things have grown in significance, like the pleasure of a good back-scratch or, for Dan, the bliss of a few moments in which I make no demands. Other things have begun anew, like the nightly anointing of my head and belly with oil that helps me to remember in whose hands and by whose mercy all of us have our being.

Mostly, whatever the changes, we're just grateful for the blessing of life... divine, human and feline. That, and we cherish the fleeting memory of an undisturbed night's sleep!