This is what I woke up to this morning.
Now before you assume that I have a small child, let me just tell you that the creature responsible for the line of stuffed animals is a gray cat with a thwarted mothering instinct. Every day, I put these little animals away. And every day, she drags them out (with great fanfare, mind you) crying a pathetic cry while she carries them in her mouth and leaves them on the floor for me to find. She believes they are her kittens, and she refuses to leave them in a basket. Her favorites are the baby penguin, and the pink Peeps bunny, who are both showing a bit of dirt on their tummies from so much love.
This is the “mama.” I’m sure you can tell by the look in her eye that she is completely unconcerned with the extra work she creates for me each day. She basically regards me as household staff. I am here to pick up after her, give her love and affection on demand, and keep her food dish overflowing. If I fail in any of these areas, she glares at me with disapproval. But I must say, when I’m reading a book, and she jumps on my lap, curling up and purring so loud she’s literally vibrating with joy, well… in that moment I don’t mind the arrangement much. I don’t mind much at all.