Love Cats

The other night our littlest kitten, who is no longer little, was ill. He must have eaten a plant or something when out on the porch all afternoon. He was listless, vomiting, breathing shallowly and his heartbeat was rapid. Pretty scary stuff. And he didn't want to be touched at all. To avoid dehydration, I kept dipping my finger in his bowl and he would lick the water off.

Yesterday morning he was still not well but I got a call later from the hubby that the kitten was regaining strength, had eaten some canned food and was drinking from his water bowl. Phew.

Last night, I walked in the door and he ran over to me, climbed straight up my pant leg and clung to my sweater until I held him. Then he began rubbing his head all over my face and suckling on my lips. Frantic for love.

Loosely translated, he was saying "omgiwassoooosickanddidntknowwhattodoandandandandicouldbarelyliftmyheadorbreatheandiwassoscaredandthenyouleftandicouldntfindyouanywhereyouweregoneforpossiblyyearsandiwassoscaredandnowyourehomeanditfeltlikeyouwerenevercominghomeimissedyousoooomuchandandandandimsogladyourebackthatimnevergoingtoletyougo"

It feels good to be loved. Thank God he's okay.

We're on the Cakeside

Among other things, including video games and watching anything on the Military channel, Son #1 is really into food and cooking. He's willing to try anything bizarre on a menu and loves some pretty interesting dishes. (Hence the little gut he's already forming.)

Over the weekend, I bought a $3 hardcover cookbook for him filled with beautiful photos and recipes for chocolate cakes, cookies, pies, you name it. He wants to make everything in the book and share it all with Grannie (our favorite chocoholic).

While Son #2 (aka hamslice) was trying on new DC skateboard shoes, Son #1 was showing him cakes that he could make for his upcoming birthday party.

"What if I make this chocolate gateau cake for your party? It looks so good!"

"I'd rather have a chocolate ghetto cake. Can you make one of those?"

A Photo Per Day

My girlfriend Ursula has been posting a daily photo on Facebook of her life for a month. Pictures include the view from her apartment, the street vendor from whom she buys her morning coffee, her bike, etc. And she's struggling. I keep thinking, "You live in Manhattan -- every street has a new photo op, no?" Not to mention that she's artistic and works for MOMA. It seems like it should be a relatively easy assignment for her but it's not.

I was wondering if I could do the same thing here for a month. How difficult would it be in a town where nothing happens? Apparently pretty darned tough. But I might try it during November -- a month in the Roc that's notoriously devoid of character. No falling leaves. No sunshine. No snow (hopefully). 

I'm a terrible photographer but I brought my camera with me yesterday, in preparation, just to see what I could capture.

First stop, early morning, my sister's new puppy barking at the waves outside the cottage. He was racing around so quickly I could barely capture him in the frame.

Then, off to the tiny Episcopalian church that's about one minute up the road where my little man rang the bell after the service. So stinkin' cute to see him pulling the giant cord and listen to the bells chiming.

 

After church, we went bowling where I somehow forgot to take pictures. What I should have captured were the insulting graphics that appeared on the giant screen above our lane. Dancing pins shouting "gutter ball." Great for a little kid's self-esteem (not to mention mine). 

Remembered the camera before lunch at Rio Tomatlan in Canandaigua. Como se dice, "yummy" en Espanol? It was here, after buying the kids new winter coats and gloves on the way to the restaurant, that I heard, "Thank you mom for the best day ever." Warms the heart. 

 

Intent on studying the selection of salsa verdes, the subject of the photo hides behind his menu.

Last stop on the way home, apple picking at the aptly named The Apple Farm. Riding the tractor . . . 

Picking yellow delicious . . .

Posing like the Fonz at the top of the hill camera askew . . .

And picking red delicious . . .

So tired at the end of the day, I could have slept while sitting upright but I let the Milkman do that for me  :)

Captain Obvious

I spend a few hours each Saturday watching Son #2 play baseball which I love. He's a fabulous pitcher and, on most days, a darned good hitter. And he's super cute. (Biased, I know.)

What I also enjoy is listening to the helpful comments from the dads watching from the sidelines.

"Swing if it's a good pitch."

"Try to hit the ball with the bat."

"Run if you make contact."

"Cover your base."

Really Dr. Smartypants?

At this age, most of the statements are positive reinforcement regardless of outcome. Good eye. Nice swing. And the parents basically root for any kid with a great hit or impressive catch regardless of team. One for all and all for one.

From what I've been told, this is preferable to the maniacal zeal that apparently comes as the kids and teams become more competitive. A fellow mom recently told me that, while her older son was playing a team across town, the home team parents were encouraging unethical plays and hurling slurs about the visiting kids being rich and snooty. After the game, which "our" team won, an upset woman stormed up to the coach and screamed, "I hope you all die on the ride home."

Wow. Lighten up, Francis. And, uh, nice role modeling.

With that said, I'll take a goofy remark any day.

"Pitch it over the plate son."

Pole Dancing

A few years ago, we went to Parents' Night at our kids' preschool. On the wall were pictures that our kids drew of us along with descriptions that they dictated and the teachers typed. Son #2's said, "My mama works in a church." My neighbors thought that was pretty darned funny.

My girlfriend Mary's said, "My mom has hairy legs." Classic. And even funnier. (She was absolutely mortified.)

Jennifer, my coworker, just told me that she had too many vodka and cranberries on a trip to Lake George years ago and ended up puking on the side of the road as her husband drove the family home from dinner. When they went to the second grade open house, her daughter had drawn the requisite "What I did over summer vacation" picture and wrote, "I painted the town red with my mommy." Yep, a fully illustrated reminder complete with a red line down the road.

You gotta love kids.

My friend Petey sent me a link to this story this morning. Oddly enough, I think this lady has all of us beat!