See the Tree How Big It's Grown

Thirteen. Where did the years go?


I know where 26 weeks of each of the last 4 have gone...to Lars with his "only limited contact allowed" mentality. Please let HIS last birthday be his actual last birthday.

My son has grown up in so many ways, and yet I still see the face of the little boy who very earnestly responded to the Kindergarten teacher's inquiry during Fire Safety week that "the fire alarm goes off when my Mom is making dinner."

This is a big birthday. I want to make it memorable. But not electronic!

He's mentioned Major League Baseball tickets. And I take that to mean "with all the concessions money can buy, while we're there." I can start there and build a weekend of fun around it.

I go online for tickets to our local team. To my dismay I find that the entire summer there are about 4 days that the team plays at home and the stars align so that the kids are with me and not being held hostage by Lars. Super. I painstakingly search for tickets in any section for any game on those nights. There is one possibility. We can stand for the duration of the game on that deck in the outfield.

Why not just watch from across the street in a bar?

I decide to get creative. Neighboring cities...there are at least 3 that would only require an overnight weekend trip. Maybe our team will be playing in one of those cities on a weekend that they are with me. They are on the road for most of them. A little sight seeing, a little baseball, a little shopping...perfect.

No such luck. It is beginning to look like a conspiracy.

Maybe football? Sure if I want a pre-season game. Ho-hum. I can hear the cheerleaders now. "Apathy! Apathy! A-P-A-T, ah who cares!"

I expand my horizons. Any neighboring team playing any team in any sport on any weekend that I have my kids before Patrick's next birthday.

Bingo. Orioles. Box seats. Inner Harbor. Add to my shopping cart...cha-ching.

And now the fun can begin. Scott and I will book a hotel between the harbor attractions and the stadium so we can walk or take a short cab ride to everything. Maximize the visit. Maybe take a ghost tour so Hil can get her fix. Perfect!

And to add to the theme...I go on line.

MLB Baseball Bloopers DVD. He's mentioned it before. Who doesn't love the face plants, the bobbles, the dives into the stands that go awry?

Unbeatable Baseball Numbers. A DVD about all the greats and their incredible statistics. The Hank Aarons. The Nolan Ryans. How cool is that when you are 13?

And, just to show I am not fundamentally opposed to all things video game, I also throw in the Playstation 2 MLB game. Points for Mom for not being entirely nerdy.

Bring on the cake and candles.

Hippo, Birdie, Two Ewes

I have just celebrated my birthday.

It was wonderful. Finally. A wonderful birthday. Being a year older notwithstanding.

No drama from J. No crap to contend with. Last year I returned his gifts for cash to reimburse myself for something he'd welshed on. Couldn't even look at them knowing what he'd done. Enough said.

This year, Scott had the whole thing covered. Thoughtfully, lovingly covered.

Lovely card. Handwritten sentiment. Gotta love a guy who will pick up a pen once in a while instead of letting Hallmark do all the heavy lifting.

Gift card to my spa - pamper myself any way I want while he waits to take my fabulous new self out for drinks. Beautification and cocktails. A winning hand.

Cool gear for my car - something no one but me would want, but something I'd mentioned I'd wanted to get to make my cool car even cooler. Right up Scott's alley for sure.

And then, on the evening of my birthday, we could go anywhere I want for dinner. Any. Where.

But first we'd return to a little artisan jewelry shop nearby where I'd admired so many things that day we'd walked around in the rain and sipped coffee and lingered in shops while my car got inspected and the Toyota guy tried to sell me a set of $13 spark plugs for $450 claiming "there is a lot of complicated labor involved." Really? Am I driving the Space Shuttle?

Scott wanted me to pick something that I love for him to buy for me.

How fun!

I tried on tons of things. Rings and cuffs, and bangles and necklaces. I looked at case after case of interesting designs and one-of-a-kind pieces. I would have thought I was driving the shopkeeper to distraction but she so loved the artists I gravitated toward that she was happy to explain each artist's heart when she showed each piece.

In the end, I chose, with Scott's help, a lovely silver cable and fresh water pearl tandem necklace with a beautifully designed enhancer made of silver. It had an additional embellishment not unlike Lagos' caviar at the bottom, from which dangles a lovely, larger freshwater pearl. Unique. Perfect. It is as lovely as my memories of the day. I will wear it "til the wheels fall off.

And though I'd thought for a long time that then I'd drag Scott off to some swanky new restaurant featured in the magazine Kate sells ads for, and that she has raved about, I was suddenly more interested in the familiar.

I asked if he'd be too disappointed if we pointed the car toward home and simply stopped in to our local pub for a couple of pints and our favorite sandwiches while the vocalist croons and Major League Baseball plays on all the TVs on mute.

He had been hoping I'd say just that. Yay me.

And now, I am wishing that the next birthday on the list, Patrick's, were going to be so easy.

We have already established that the surprise pet was nearly a boondoggle, so I am nervous about surprises. He's hinted at a few things, but what he really wants I won't get. I simply can't bring myself to get him yet another gaming system to complement the 4 he already has (1 at my house, 3 at Lars's)

So here he is - about to turn 13 - which as you might recall is a pretty big hairy deal when you are the one becoming a teenager, and I have no idea what to do to make it special.

I have less than a week to figure this out and my creativity is "on the fritz" (to quote my very quotable mother).

I am smoothing my Mother of the Year apron and getting down to business.

Stray Cat Strut

I have to admit I was a little unnerved by my fussbudget cat. She ignored us all, hid in the basement, ate nothing and was wasting away before our eyes. And refused perfectly good food!

I poured Scott and I a beer after the kids went to bed and told him my worries while I set about packing the kids lunches for the next day. He’s the pet veteran. I am just a rookie. What was I doing wrong? Did I assume too much? She was becoming such a mystery.

Scott listened patiently while I wrote initials on brown paper bags and folded napkins that would never get used. I packed a handful of strawberries for Hil, and a shiny Washington apple for Patrick. Each got a fudge brownie with sprinkles. He wanted peanut butter and raspberry jelly on white. She would have honey roasted turkey on white with no cheese and no mayo or mustard. Ack!

As I went to place a slice of turkey on the bread for Hil’s sandwich, out of nowhere flew Trinket, landing briefly on the counter where she batted the turkey from my hand and pounced on it where it landed on the floor. Much purring ensued.

And since then, there have been other things. Things frankly, that tell me that Miss Kitty must have been cared for by someone.

We know she was a stray. If not from her pathetic little 7-pound body weight, from her disinterest in toys in favor of live things, from her survivalist behaviors, from her distaste for cat food, from her ability and willingness to take food rather than wait for it.

But I envision her being a stray that lived in a wooded area by a strip mall…a strip mall with maybe a Chinese restaurant. Maybe she hung around the dumpster by the back door to the kitchen where the smells called to her.

And maybe some nice restaurant staff person was kind to her. Gave her things like pork chops and turkey. And water.

Trinket ignores her water bowl. No matter what size, shape or color I place by the food bowls. What she will drink from is a cup. Only a cup. Preferably one made of clear glass, please.

Every time I brushed my teeth she’d appear in the bathroom and jump up on the counter. She’d stare at the water and I could tell she was thinking – thinking of ways to get some water from the spigot into her mouth.

And one day I took a little Dixie cup and filled it to the very brim and placed it on the floor. She drank it to the very bottom, nearly getting it stuck on her tiny face.

So now I have formed some bad habits. Habits I would regret if not for the changes they’ve brought about in the cat.

I have two mugs of water in the bathroom filled to the brim every morning and night. That is her preferred watering hole. It’s that or the toilet. I keep the lid down and fill the mugs. I still fill the water bowl in the kitchen but I may as well piss up a rope for the good it will do me.

If I have a glass of water at my bedside it is understood that she will drink it in the night. Thankfully I can hear the little charm clink against the glass when she does so I don’t forget and take a swig myself later in the night. Eeewww.

Trinket will not relent until she has climbed from “her chair” at the dining room table onto the table surface and has been allowed to inspect what is on our plates - for future interest only, of course. Unless, one leaves the table, like Pat did on Thursday, and Trinket sees fit to spin your place mat with her paw until the plate is within easy reach so she can steal a piece of penne alfredo before anyone notices. This is a habit that may require a water pistol to break.

But the change in her is remarkable. With the Friskies she can count on, and an occasional nibble of home cooking, she is a fully acclimated House Cat. Happy to see you, thankful and hungry for lots of love and vittles, happy to purr and sleep on your bed all night.

She has found herself some People and we have found ourselves something to love.

She recently discovered the Catnip mouse, much to our delight and entertainment, and has not been to the basement rafters in over a week.

Welcome to our home, Trinket.

Let Them Eat Cake

Over the next few days, Trinket dines regularly on pork chops scraps. But I really can not envision cooking pork chops for this little kitty every day. But Her Royal Fussiness has clearly turned up her tiny pink nose at the $32, 20 lb bag of highly nutritious cat food I’d gotten.

The mondo bag of chow is going to Scott’s where his unfussy cat Snickers will surely eat it. I keep a gallon pitcher of the chow for Trinket, in the event that I am negligent in getting to the store some day and it is a choice between the chow and starvation. I am hoping Miss Meowypants will choose wisely.

Never one to give up altogether, I continue to try to tempt her with the canned food. I even take the advice of some online pet expert and heat it up a little so it smells stronger (really???) but she is sooooo not having any of that.

I offer her a can of MY tuna. No go.

I cook her a scrambled egg like my mother would have. No thanks.

We’ll have to try something entirely new. So Scott and I make a trip to the grocery store.

The pet aisle at Superfresh is daunting. And completely unfamiliar territory. I do eventually figure out that cat stuff is on the left and dog stuff in on the right. Good distinction to make.

I am looking for what my Dad used to give our cat, day in and day out, without variation. It was called Tender Vittles, and it came in a box filled with little foil lined pouches that contained what I’d describe as semi-dry morsels of very smelly food stuffs that would appeal only to cats (or maybe the otherwise starving person confined to his house for a long period of time that exceeds the shelf life of any people food that may remain there)

There is no such thing.

I am tempted again by the high-priced nutritionally engineered varieties.

Scott has better plans.

He grabs one box each of three flavors of Friskies with names like “Surf and Turf-full” and “Seafood Sensation.” Do cats read now?

Since I am convinced that Trinket has preferences for table food, as witnessed by the reaction to pork chops, I am sure I should not leave it at just Friskies.

I reach for a variety pack of envelopes filled with different meats of known kitty- appeal and described as having their own “gravy.” I am imagining how putrid the smell.

We go home and I am anxious to see Trinket’s reaction.

I pour some Friskies into a freshly washed bowl.

Nothing.

I open a pouch of Tuna-something with gravy. I swoon from the smell but squeeze the contents onto a little china dish, and of course get some on my hand.

Trinket wants to see about my hand before committing to the dish. She takes a quick lick or two. Stares at me. I (gasp!) pick up a chunk of the mush and hold out my hand like I had with the chops.

She licks at it and meows. But it is not a happy meow. She is hungry but not at all interested in this stuff either.

I am beginning to think that she’d actually choose starvation.

Get Back, Honky Cat

The next few days are a little dicey.

Trinket has all the hallmarks of a stray. Most remarkable to me is her posture when she sleeps. She is crouched and resting, but on her feet, ready to run at any second should danger come near. It is hardly relaxed.

She is not friendly. She hides in the basement often. Sometimes in the rafters and recesses of the walls, sometimes in things like an Easter basket, six-pack sized cooler or a pile of winter coats. She will not make a sound and instead will let you look all over the damn place, which I believe I’ve described as Sanford and Son East, presumably chuckling her little kitty chuckle while you make little kissy noises and try to lure her out by shaking the box of Friskies. (Don’t laugh! It worked for my cat as a kid!)

She eats nothing. And I mean nothing. But she does get enormously curious about what goes on at the dining room table.

On Tuesday, Scott joins us for dinner. I have made pork chops that I’ve braised and then poached in barbecue sauce, apple sauce and a little brown sugar. I’ve also made baked beans and salad. Hil has set the table with martini glasses and candles, ever the romantic.

Scott is concerned about Trinket too. (Animal lover, through and through) After dinner, he takes a few scraps of meat from the fatty edges he’s carved from his chops and places them on the floor.

Trinket is transformed! She bounds over to the scraps and scarfs them down. I have one remaining chop and some scraps left by the kids (not a crumb left on my plate, natch) and begin to chop them up in to manageable pieces.

Trinket is purring and rubbing up against my legs as I stand at the counter. She is stretched up on her hind legs with one paw against the door of the dishwasher (the stainless steel is going to take a beating with this cat) and has one paw free and poised to swat at anything the gets loose.

When I stoop to place the meat on her plate, she places on paw on my wrist and digs in ever so slightly with her claws. She is holding my hand in place so she can take the food from my fingers!

It is a sight to behold. She eats until she is full. It didn’t take long, her poor little tummy is so shrunken with starvation.

She is purring and affectionate and becomes all snoozy with the fullness of her little belly.

Maybe Trinket is realizing that now she has People. And maybe, these people will love her enough to figure out what it is that she likes and what it is that she needs, and get them for her.

She climbs onto a pillow, curls up with her paw and tail across her tiny little face and sleeps. Finally, she sleeps in a position of true relaxation. I think she’s realized she is Home.

The Year of the Cat

At last we are home. I feel a little guilty about leaving Trinket so soon. The kids have no idea what to expect from a cat. I am not sure I do. I have an hour to figure it out.

I put down food and water for her. I have arranged all of her bowls on a decorative place mat. She ignores the food. Same routine as at Scott's. She is skeletal; I try not to dwell.

I carry her to the litter box, so she knows where to find it: artfully placed on its coordinating mat to the left of the foot of the short flight of steps to my basement. It is an unfinished basement. I wonder why I bothered with all the coordinating. It’s the Mom in me, I suppose.

I introduce Trinket to all of her toys. Since none of them resembles a live, panicked bird, she is disinterested. She scampers back to the basement to the base of the fireplace chute where we once detected a mouse.

She is frozen there. Staring.

Oh good. A mouser. Let the games begin.

But I must go to the orthodontist at once, and first must tell the children three simple things:

1 - Don’t let Trinket outside for any reason, even by accident.

2 - If she does anything weird, call Scott.

3 - If she poops, pees or barfs on anything, just leave it for me. I can dole out KP duty details once we’ve all gotten used to each other.

I go to the orthodontist. Uneventful thank God.

I return to my car to find 4 missed messages from my home and my children’s cell phones, and Scott is calling me.

I answer in a panic.

He tells me that the kids have been calling him. Trinket seems to want to retreat to the basement. I tell him about my mousing suspicions.

He tells me that she is climbing into the cool, dark, albeit filthy spaces between the top of the foundation and the floors of the house. He thinks maybe she’s sick. Maybe she’s going in there to die.

I had a cat that did that when I was growing up. He was 18. After he went through his cranky old age stage of peeing on one’s pillow out of spite, he climbed into the dark, cool recesses of the linen closet by the water pipes to die. My brother had to climb in to pull him out, presumably to die a more humiliating public death.

I race home. This can not be how this story ends. Poor kitty. Poor kids. And perhaps worst of all, Lars will make this a laughable story that proves without question that I am the crappiest mother on the planet.

What's New Pussycat?

But in my heart and soul I have to give this a heartfelt investment. If I anticipate trouble, surely there will be some. I have to assume Patrick is not allergic, that the episode at his friend’s house was more about the mangey cats themselves and the general lack of housekeeping than allergies, and that if necessary, Patrick can resist the urge to bury his adorable face in her fur and wash his hands regularly.

We are off to Scott’s early on Saturday.

We talk about the cat all the way there – every inch of 90 miles is about what to do, what not to do, what the cat might be feeling, what the girls and Scott might be feeling. I am sure I am sucking the joy right out of this whole affair.

We arrive and are greeted first by the dogs.
And the girls.
And Scott.

And then we are introduced to Trinket.

She is more aloof than I recall. She does none of the nosing around for my hand that she did in the pound. Fickle little thing. She has grown quite fond of the girls and will come to them if they call. Other than that she could not care less that we’ve arrived. I am a little concerned that I’ve made a mistake. In her mind, she’s already been adopted. But by the Bowersox family, not mine. In her mind, her mission is accomplished.

Her mind? Her mind is the approximate size of a chickpea. I relax and tell myself that we just have to get her home – home to my house of many climbable surfaces and lots of valuable artifacts to knock from mantles and book shelves. What cat wouldn’t love it?

My kids have had no idea what to expect except, don’t expect her to greet you like a dog does. They are not bothered by the aloofness.

Snoopy and Charlie are still the crowd favorites, and the kids are easily distracted by the trampoline and the X-Box and the rides on Scott’s boat.

But Sunday comes soon enough and by mid-morning, in time for me to get back to my Invisalign appointment, we have packed the enormous crate and the kitty with it into my car and are headed for home.

Being serenaded all the while by Miss Meowypants who may just miss her other family.