Pre-Kids, Part 1

Expat and I aren't parents. Not yet. Maybe once he finishes his PhD and we both have Real Jobs. For now, though, we fall in with all those other twentysomethings who only have to worry about taking care of the laundry and the cooking and a few houseplants and whose turn it is to vacuum the 900 square foot, two-bedroom apartment we call home. This might explain why I was so desperate to get a cat: one can only elicit so much of a response from a golden pothos.

We adopted Wilbur and Orville from a great local (mostly) no-kill shelter fifteen minutes from home. We went in to get one preferably declawed older cat. We came out with two 4-month-old kittens (Expat's fault, not mine). And suddenly, we were having discussions about boundaries and discipline and enforcing rules with consistency. We had to decide what doctor to take them to and what food they should eat and whether or not their behaviors were normal for little guys their age. We bought them toys to encourage smart development. We debated the catnip issue: to try it, or not to try it, and was this the best thing for our boys? What about the occasional accidents: were they really accidents or was Orville trying to tell us something? And somewhere between the first little head cold and the long lecture about leaving Expat's things exactly as he left them on the bathroom counter, the kittens became more than just kittens. Somewhere between New Kitten Week Two and Week Six, the kittens became Pre-Kids.

For the record, we are not pet parents the way some owners of small yappy dogs are pet parents: we don't dress our cats in matching outfits or tie ribbons to their ears or carry them with us in handbags. We do, however, lapse into talking about them as though they are children, which Expat will be the first to tell you, they are not. ("How can I be their father? Who would I have to knock up to pop out a nasty furry thing like that? It's a cat, Sparky. A cat.") They come up in idle conversation at bars, in restaurants, at our Labor Day cookout. I email pictures of them to our friends and I call my mom to tell her when one of them does something especially cute. When we meet other pet parents, especially those parents of cats, we gush and coo and compare notes on our respective Pre-Kids.

In return for all this unabashed love and adoration—and, perhaps, the all-natural dry kibble I feed them twice a day—the Pre-Kids themselves purr and cavort and fetch and chase and open cupboard doors and chase spiders and wreak general havoc upon their scratching post day in and day out. Not a day goes by when they don’t make me laugh. I’m serious. I have laughed every single day since that day back in August of 2005 when we brought them home and Orville crawled up our pantry shelf and went to sleep on top of the Tupperware flour canister. Every day. Not even my husband can make me laugh every day. Not even one of my favorite cartoon strips in the local fishwrap. Not even Garrison Keillor.

And that’s all the news from Lake Furbegone, where all the Sparkys are strong, all the Expats are good looking, and all of the Pre-Kids are above average.