We are at soccer, where there is so much fun going you wouldn’t believe it. Lily is playing, the sun is shining, and here on the grassy sidelines the smaller kids are kicking balls and running and jumping ane leaping…
But not Rory. Rory got a bump and scored a lap hug, and there is no way she is getting up. Possibly ever. She is bothered…Wyatt’s friend has her ball….but oh, no, she isn’t going anywhere.
I am torn about hiw I feel about this. I don’t like it…I almost never do…but I feel like I should like it. Soon,the echoing voices tell me, they will be too big to sit on your lap, and you will be sad. But I am not sure that’s true. I rarely miss things that I don’t like to begin with, and I just don’t like having my personal space sat on.
Sometimes I think, well, dummy, why did you have kids then? Where did you think they would want to sit? And worse, why did you adopt one, who was pretty much bound to either want physical affection, or need you force it on her in order to teach her about love, yadda, yadda.
I just didn’t think about it that way. And it’s not like I won’t hold her. It’s not like I won’t snuggle her on my lap. And occasionally I even want to. But sometime I think, damn, I shoukdnhave just got cats.
But I’m allergic to cats. So oh well.
Cats don’t stay off laps either. And they show their love by kneading your thighs with their fully extended claws.
If cats have an advantage over kids, it’s that you can leave them home alone several hours per day. And they probably won’t move much during that time.
(I will ignore for the moment that my cat Riley never sleeps, and I suspect she clones herself when I turn my back so that she can be inconveniently situated in several places at once.)