The moment our 9-month-old visitor saw the cat, her eyes widened, her mouth pursed intently, she pushed herself up and toddled across the room to the cat. She wanted to be close to a living creature smaller than herself.
Delicate little fingers reached out to grab an ear, poke trusting dark eyes and burrow into a thick ruck coat of fur.
The cat looked up at us curiously and switched her tail. The baby cooed, released her fist full of fur and reached for the waving black tip of a tail. The cat flicked the tail away. Fingers fanned out to grab. The tot’s hand followed the tail’s seductive twitches. The second the cat relaxed its tail the baby grabbed, cooed and exulted in her catch as she pulled the tail to her mouth. Momma, grandma and aunty, chorused, “No!”
Momma pried open the little fingers, releasing the cat’s tail. The cat ran for the door, followed by the disappointed cry of an infant, discovering that her actions affect others.
Our first Christmas with a grandchild was a week of enchantment as one busy little girl discovered our mirrors, furniture and cats. It was all delightful except for one vital part of her visit: The car seat. Her daddy insisted.
Fir her own protection, she had to stay strapped into that seat. She protested with whines, tears, screams and thrashing hands.
We stopped the car to let her out to play mid-trip and she was happy. The minute her momma aimed that little ball of energy toward the car seat, she renewed her protest. As a newcomer to the world, she hates restrictions for any length of time or reason. In time, she may appreciate our caution, but this year, her parents waited until she was asleep to travel from their one-bedroom apartment in New Orleans to our three-bedroom ranch.
Simply entering our house was an adventure for the 17-pounder. Down the hall, around the living room, she cruised in her drunken sailor walk. She teetered on new-found legs a few steps at a time until she plopped down on her diaper-padded bottom and rested a second before she pushed herself up to investigate the dining room chairs and any crumbs left on the floor.
Weary of protectively trailing her, we shrank her world to an oversized playpen with a circle of couches, chairs and bookshelves. She circled her play area, patted the window sill, played happily with the empty boxes left over from Christmas and found every piece of stray gift wrapping left on the floor from Christmas morning.
In the dark hours of the pre-dawn morning, her mamma brought the bright-eyed explorer knocking at my bedroom door to play while my teenager and college sons slept. As her daddy says, “I don’t have an alarm clock, I have a baby.”
I didn’t mind our temporary alarm clock. She reminded me of the hours of uninterrupted togetherness I shared with my babies before they sleep through the night. Too bad she had to go back to New Orleans. The cat may not miss her, but I will.