The One-Armed Typist
“You’re gonna have to learn how to type with one hand,” people often inform me when they find out I’m having a baby, anticipating my continued writing addiction and Candy Junior’s desire to be held (apparently, babies like this or something?).
Little do they know I’ve been a one-armed typist for some years now:
Cats have a reputation for being aloof, disdainful and Satanic plotters of their owners’ demise. This may be true for a small handful of felines — in fact, my aunt’s cat Tigger (R.I.P. thank GOD) possessed a very calculated plan to whack my grandma, leaping from the tops of armoires, claws outstretched, in an apparent attempt to decapitate Grandma as she walked by — but not so with our kitties.
No, Marcy and Matty think they’re dogs, running to the door, tails a’waggin’, as soon as we come home. Hell, they even enjoy watching “The Real Housewives of Atlanta/New York/Orange County” with us. (Okay, okay… we all know who “us” really is: my husband). Little Marcy, pictured above, begs to be walked outside on a leash, purring as soon as I get the harness. True story. And, as you can see, she also begs to sit on my lap ANY time I happen to be seated at my computer. Which happens to be 95 percent of the day.
Don’t be jealous of my glamorous life.
In fact, Marcy has become OBSESSED with me ever since Mr. Candy’s swimmers hit the jackpot. At first I thought it was just a coincidence, or that I’d inadvertently given myself a catnip body wrap (trust me, Pregnancy Brain can make you do some VERY strange things of which you’re completely unaware), but I’ve since learned that some cats can sense pregnancy and become incredibly maternal.
That’s my Marcy.
I take a break to watch a “Seinfeld” rerun — Marcy needs to sit on my belly. Like, needs in the way Amy Winehouse needs vodka cocaine-tinis. I wake up in the middle of the night — Marcy is nestled tightly against my bump, guarding our Baby Girl from the evil Tiggers of the world. I try to pet her head — Marcy turns the tables on me, licking my hands with a vengeance because my dirty paws are clearly not ready to handle a precious newborn. Ex-cuuuuse me.
I fully expect to wake up one day to find Marcy has singlepawedly decorated the nursery, her fluffy brow furrowed as she tests the sturdiness of the bassinet she just assembled, ’cause she doesn’t trust us dopes with these critical baby tasks.
From my lips to Marcy’s furry ears… that would definitely earn you an extra dollop of Meow Mix, Marc. (I know, I know… I’m too damn good to her.)