About a month ago, the youngest Huffman announced her news.
“I’m getting two goats,” she said.
Not being in charge of Huffman animals, I looked at my husband, who nodded to confirm.
Where exactly are we putting these two goats? I asked.
Down the street at the 4-H farm, she said.
All
of my problems with the goats instantly evaporated. I don’t care how
many goats we own just as long as they aren’t pooping in my backyard.
Apparently
this is what happens in 4-H. The kids start with something small and
portable like a bunny and next thing you know, you’re a goat farmer.
4-H goats work like this:
You
get the goats. You feed the goats. You train the goats to walk around
on a leash-type thing. You take the goats to the fair where you sell the
goats.
You make a few bucks and someone else makes goat stew.
I like how goat ownership has a speedy beginning, middle and end including dollar signs.
After
the goat delivery, we headed over to the farm to check them out. There
they were, about 20 brown and white goats, along with a few sheep.
We visited before they’d been fed. Big mistake.
Do
not visit goats that are expecting dinner. If you do not bring the
dinner, the goats get m-a-d. The sheep will also be mad. And they will
make a lot of noise to let you know just how mad they are.
Don’t
try and explain to the mad goats/sheep that you are very sorry about not
bringing food because you are only visiting. This will only make them
madder.
There was a cute little cow in another pen next to the
goats. She was not mad. She was frisky and practically pranced along
next to the fence when we walked by. Who knew a cow could act like a
puppy?
Later my husband corrected me.
That’s not a cow, he said. That’s a steer.
Gotcha, Mr. I Grew Up On A Farm.
I
discovered that the goats aren’t like a puppy. They don’t want to be
petted. They don’t even want to be touched. When our girl got into their
pen, they ran to one corner. When she walked over to them, they ran to
the other corner. It was like a game of chase, which is not how you
train a goat, my husband informed us. Do not chase the goats, he said.
In the middle of the pen was a tree stump. I assumed it was for the goat owner to sit and pet her
goats, a la “Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm,” but instead, the goats used it
as a scouting platform, probably for a better view of who is bringing
them dinner.
The goats warily eyed our girl while she tried to
entice them over for a snack of some Wheat Thins. Eventually the bravest
of the two, now named Caramel, managed a quick nibble before running
away. The not-so-brave goat, named Snickers, kept his distance.
I think someone must have told him about the goat stew.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Jury Mom
Some people are afraid of spiders, clowns or horror movies.
I used to fear jury duty.
This was back when our three girls were single digits and my day was a nonstop marathon of waking, dressing, feeding, napping, making dinner, supervising three baths and pretty much dropping dead at about 8 p.m. each night.
How would I manage all that and a jury? Sure, you get some piddly amount for a stipend but that definitely wouldn’t pay for a baby sitter for three kids. My husband could take over mommy duty but who would do his job?
Whenever I got the dreaded red jury notice, I immediately checked the box for the 90-day extension and then usually a second 90-day extension, praying that the jury choosers would eventually forget about me and my three kids. The few times I had to call in for jury selection the night before, I’d cross my fingers. Please don’t pick me. Please, please, please.
Even before kids, I hated getting called because my employer didn’t pay for jury duty. That didn’t stop me from getting summoned for a jury in San Francisco when I lived in the city. It was an attempted murder trial, but all I heard was “murder.”
It was a novelty for about two hours but then I realized that being on a jury would seriously cut into my single-girl lifestyle. The attorneys eyeing potential jurors probably saw a spacey 20-something who could barely concentrate on what she was doing in the next two hours let alone the next two days. I was excused.
Smart move, Judge. I was in no condition to be serving up justice on attempted murderers or anyone else.
I once got called for jury duty in Napa while I was still nursing one baby. I panicked. How was I going to feed my baby every three hours if I got seated on a jury? Whip out a breast pump during cross examination? Smuggle her in under an XL maternity blouse? Or just wear her in a Baby Bjorn and let the defense get an earful of hungry baby? Luckily for me and the entire criminal justice system, I was dismissed early on.
The other day, a co-worker got called for jury duty. But instead of my usual thankgoodnessitsnotme, I realized that I actually wouldn’t mind being on a jury.
Our girls are pretty much self-sustainable these days. My job pays me for jury duty. It’d be like a vacation but without using any vacation days. I’m a naturally curious person – I think it would be cool to be part of a trial. In the jury box, I mean.
And what if I was on a jury trial where I had to be sequestered?
No TV, no Internet, no cellphone. After jury duty, I’d have to sit around all by myself and read books. All meals would be provided. I’d get maid service and stay in a hotel room.
Napa attorneys: Give me a call. I’m all yours.
I used to fear jury duty.
This was back when our three girls were single digits and my day was a nonstop marathon of waking, dressing, feeding, napping, making dinner, supervising three baths and pretty much dropping dead at about 8 p.m. each night.
How would I manage all that and a jury? Sure, you get some piddly amount for a stipend but that definitely wouldn’t pay for a baby sitter for three kids. My husband could take over mommy duty but who would do his job?
Whenever I got the dreaded red jury notice, I immediately checked the box for the 90-day extension and then usually a second 90-day extension, praying that the jury choosers would eventually forget about me and my three kids. The few times I had to call in for jury selection the night before, I’d cross my fingers. Please don’t pick me. Please, please, please.
Even before kids, I hated getting called because my employer didn’t pay for jury duty. That didn’t stop me from getting summoned for a jury in San Francisco when I lived in the city. It was an attempted murder trial, but all I heard was “murder.”
It was a novelty for about two hours but then I realized that being on a jury would seriously cut into my single-girl lifestyle. The attorneys eyeing potential jurors probably saw a spacey 20-something who could barely concentrate on what she was doing in the next two hours let alone the next two days. I was excused.
Smart move, Judge. I was in no condition to be serving up justice on attempted murderers or anyone else.
I once got called for jury duty in Napa while I was still nursing one baby. I panicked. How was I going to feed my baby every three hours if I got seated on a jury? Whip out a breast pump during cross examination? Smuggle her in under an XL maternity blouse? Or just wear her in a Baby Bjorn and let the defense get an earful of hungry baby? Luckily for me and the entire criminal justice system, I was dismissed early on.
The other day, a co-worker got called for jury duty. But instead of my usual thankgoodnessitsnotme, I realized that I actually wouldn’t mind being on a jury.
Our girls are pretty much self-sustainable these days. My job pays me for jury duty. It’d be like a vacation but without using any vacation days. I’m a naturally curious person – I think it would be cool to be part of a trial. In the jury box, I mean.
And what if I was on a jury trial where I had to be sequestered?
No TV, no Internet, no cellphone. After jury duty, I’d have to sit around all by myself and read books. All meals would be provided. I’d get maid service and stay in a hotel room.
Napa attorneys: Give me a call. I’m all yours.
Monday, April 28, 2014
The VIP
It had been four months since we’d seen College Girl, so of course
everyone wanted maximum face time with the family VIP when she came to
Napa for Easter.
Let’s go shopping together for an Easter outfit, said mom.
Check out my cactus garden, said Grandpa.
Come with me to my boyfriend’s track meet, said one sister.
Watch me breed my rabbits, said the other sister.
After a few suspicious sniffs, even the dog wanted to hang out with her.
I was in a good mood all weekend. College Girl’s sisters were probably wondering what had come over mom. I said yes to almost everything. I took the girls to the mall and out to dinner almost every night. At Target, I let them talk me into buying both the new Hobbit movie and “Frozen.”
At Starbucks, instead of our usual $2 rule, my husband turned into Daddy Warbucks and told everyone to get whatever they wanted.
College kids, if you haven’t visited home lately, you should definitely reconsider. Us mom and dads miss you and want to buy you all the Frappuccinos and hot panini sandwiches you can eat.
The teenager who comes home from college is really something.
They’ve got swagger. Attitude. Chutzpah. They’ve lived away from mom and dad long enough to appreciate in-house laundry service, free food and a full tank of gas, but they’ve also got that new almost-20-something confidence.
They have been thrust out into the wilderness and survived. Kind of like Tom Hanks in “Cast Away”: “I have made fire. I. Have made fire.”
College Girl even surprised mom a couple of times over the weekend.
When one Huffman daughter complained about not having any spending money, College Girl laid it out for her.
You need to get a job, she told her sister.
When another Huffman daughter warned her sister about saying anything that might make for good column material, College Girl shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “So what?”
That’s not to say the oldest Huffman is all that. Mom had to put the kibosh on the swearing.
I don’t care how old you are, your mother doesn’t want to hear four-letter words coming out of your mouth.
By the time we sat down to Easter dinner, I started getting sad feelings.
College Girl had to go back to college. Mom and Dad had to go back to work. There would be no more spoiling. No more shopping.
She left early on Monday morning to catch a 6:30 a.m. flight.
I looked inside her room after she left. I’d gotten used to seeing her in there again, sitting on her bed with her laptop, clothes spilling out of her suitcase on the floor, blankets and pillows thrown around.
But that morning, the room was empty. Her pile of clothes and the suitcase were gone. She had even made her bed.
Let’s go shopping together for an Easter outfit, said mom.
Check out my cactus garden, said Grandpa.
Come with me to my boyfriend’s track meet, said one sister.
Watch me breed my rabbits, said the other sister.
After a few suspicious sniffs, even the dog wanted to hang out with her.
I was in a good mood all weekend. College Girl’s sisters were probably wondering what had come over mom. I said yes to almost everything. I took the girls to the mall and out to dinner almost every night. At Target, I let them talk me into buying both the new Hobbit movie and “Frozen.”
At Starbucks, instead of our usual $2 rule, my husband turned into Daddy Warbucks and told everyone to get whatever they wanted.
College kids, if you haven’t visited home lately, you should definitely reconsider. Us mom and dads miss you and want to buy you all the Frappuccinos and hot panini sandwiches you can eat.
The teenager who comes home from college is really something.
They’ve got swagger. Attitude. Chutzpah. They’ve lived away from mom and dad long enough to appreciate in-house laundry service, free food and a full tank of gas, but they’ve also got that new almost-20-something confidence.
They have been thrust out into the wilderness and survived. Kind of like Tom Hanks in “Cast Away”: “I have made fire. I. Have made fire.”
College Girl even surprised mom a couple of times over the weekend.
When one Huffman daughter complained about not having any spending money, College Girl laid it out for her.
You need to get a job, she told her sister.
When another Huffman daughter warned her sister about saying anything that might make for good column material, College Girl shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “So what?”
That’s not to say the oldest Huffman is all that. Mom had to put the kibosh on the swearing.
I don’t care how old you are, your mother doesn’t want to hear four-letter words coming out of your mouth.
By the time we sat down to Easter dinner, I started getting sad feelings.
College Girl had to go back to college. Mom and Dad had to go back to work. There would be no more spoiling. No more shopping.
She left early on Monday morning to catch a 6:30 a.m. flight.
I looked inside her room after she left. I’d gotten used to seeing her in there again, sitting on her bed with her laptop, clothes spilling out of her suitcase on the floor, blankets and pillows thrown around.
But that morning, the room was empty. Her pile of clothes and the suitcase were gone. She had even made her bed.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Mom, the review
Does anyone actually enjoy doing an employee “self-evaluation”?
Not me.
Talk about what I could have done better? Improved on? Actually did well?
Do I have to? I have a deadline and an interview and I really need to go to the bathroom. Plus I am very busy with a bunch of other very important random stuff.
It doesn’t matter. About once a year, my computer tells me it’s time to do my so-called “review.”
As I was answering the questions last week I wondered what it’d be like to do a mom review instead of a work review.
Of course we moms don’t actually get reviewed, except by our teenagers and usually starting with the words “You’re so mean …”
Reviews are typically tied to rewards, the best being a raise of actual money. But we moms definitely don’t get yearly raises or bonuses.
Heck, if I get two loads of laundry washed and folded and put away in less than 24 hours, that’s a bonus. If I can finish all my daily chores before 8 p.m., bonus!
My main goal each night is to get some form of dinner on the table and make sure no one is flunking any subjects required to graduate from high school.
I don’t worry about “contributing skills that complement other team members” while I’m simultaneously cooking dinner, sorting the mail, feeding the cat and emptying the dishwasher.
Employee self-evaluation talk includes a lot of phrases such as: “Fulfills commitments to team members,” “Demonstrates genuine value of others” and “Communicates effectively.”
It’s so much easier to concentrate on these at work, where I am being paid to do so. The “work” is spread among many at work. And boy we are on it at work. We’re focused. We’re determined. We’re caffeinated.
At home, it’s just me and my husband. We are also very focused and determined — usually about figuring out who’s taking whom to school tomorrow, why the rain is leaking into my car and if anyone scooped the dog poop lately.
At work I’m supposed to “persist in overcoming obstacles.”
As moms, we’ve got that covered. We parents do an awful lot of persisting. Teenagers do an awful lot of resisting. If they would just stop all the resisting we’d all get along so much better and peace and harmony would reign in the family and the world. Everyone make a circle now and let’s sing a folk song. Come on teenagers, hold hands with your mom and dad. We don’t have cooties.
My review also included a bunch of examples of “STOPetencies” or “Contrary Behaviors” to beware of.
According to the review form, contrary behaviors are things like relying on others to decide what to do, resisting change and using words like “That’s not my job.”
Hello teenagers? My employee self-review is calling and it wants you to stop resisting and persisting and being all contrary all the time.
Also could you please scoop the dog poop?
Not me.
Talk about what I could have done better? Improved on? Actually did well?
Do I have to? I have a deadline and an interview and I really need to go to the bathroom. Plus I am very busy with a bunch of other very important random stuff.
It doesn’t matter. About once a year, my computer tells me it’s time to do my so-called “review.”
As I was answering the questions last week I wondered what it’d be like to do a mom review instead of a work review.
Of course we moms don’t actually get reviewed, except by our teenagers and usually starting with the words “You’re so mean …”
Reviews are typically tied to rewards, the best being a raise of actual money. But we moms definitely don’t get yearly raises or bonuses.
Heck, if I get two loads of laundry washed and folded and put away in less than 24 hours, that’s a bonus. If I can finish all my daily chores before 8 p.m., bonus!
My main goal each night is to get some form of dinner on the table and make sure no one is flunking any subjects required to graduate from high school.
I don’t worry about “contributing skills that complement other team members” while I’m simultaneously cooking dinner, sorting the mail, feeding the cat and emptying the dishwasher.
Employee self-evaluation talk includes a lot of phrases such as: “Fulfills commitments to team members,” “Demonstrates genuine value of others” and “Communicates effectively.”
It’s so much easier to concentrate on these at work, where I am being paid to do so. The “work” is spread among many at work. And boy we are on it at work. We’re focused. We’re determined. We’re caffeinated.
At home, it’s just me and my husband. We are also very focused and determined — usually about figuring out who’s taking whom to school tomorrow, why the rain is leaking into my car and if anyone scooped the dog poop lately.
At work I’m supposed to “persist in overcoming obstacles.”
As moms, we’ve got that covered. We parents do an awful lot of persisting. Teenagers do an awful lot of resisting. If they would just stop all the resisting we’d all get along so much better and peace and harmony would reign in the family and the world. Everyone make a circle now and let’s sing a folk song. Come on teenagers, hold hands with your mom and dad. We don’t have cooties.
My review also included a bunch of examples of “STOPetencies” or “Contrary Behaviors” to beware of.
According to the review form, contrary behaviors are things like relying on others to decide what to do, resisting change and using words like “That’s not my job.”
Hello teenagers? My employee self-review is calling and it wants you to stop resisting and persisting and being all contrary all the time.
Also could you please scoop the dog poop?
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Fear the beard
A funny thing started to happen to my husband’s face a few weeks ago.
Hair kept growing on the bottom of it. And growing.
It’s a beard, he said, when I asked him what was going on.
I’m growing a beard.
My husband has been known to grow a goatee or mustache/chin hair combo. Even a short, trimmed up beard. But this was definitely Beard 2.0. And it was getting longer by the day.
Here’s the thing about beards. They don’t just arrive full grown. They kind of sneak up on the people you live with. If the man of the house stops shaving, it takes about a week before the rest of us catch wind of this new creation. And then one day there it is.
A beard.
What’s the inspiration for the beard? I asked.
He reminded me about the upcoming wine competitions he’ll be judging at. I guess most wine judge types go for the clean-shaved look.
A beard might be one way of differentiating himself amidst the other oenophiles sniffing inside their wine glasses.
Or maybe the beard will help capture the wine “bouquet” more effectively.
Either way, he’ll definitely stand out.
The girls were a little dubious about Dad’s new look.
How long are you going to let it grow? they asked.
Is it hot?
Is it itchy?
Is that all gray hair?
The reporter in me was also curious. What kind of beard are you going for?
Former Giant Brian Wilson? Merlin Olsen from “Little House on the Prairie”? “Duck Dynasty”?
None of the above, apparently. After some consideration, he texted me his beard inspirations: sailor Sven Yrvind, castaway Tom Hanks and Zach Galifianakis.
I had to Google the first guy. Sure enough, he’s a sailor who possesses some mighty facial hair. And all white, I should note.
Tom Hanks’ beard in “Cast Away” was quite magnificent, too.
I don’t know about the third reference. Maybe I’ve got the “Hangover” movies on my mind but I kind of wonder how clean Zach Galifianakis keeps his beard.
Turns out that once you have a beard, it’s like joining a new club.
My husband has reported that beard wearers like to acknowledge each other.
Kind of like when a woman sees another woman wearing a really cute pair of shoes. Only beard guys just nod in a manly way at each other. They don’t ask where the other guy got his beard and if it was on sale.
After Googling Sven Yrvind, I came across this Australian guy by the name of Jimmy Niggles. In honor of a good friend who passed away, he’s been growing a beard for years.
And it really is some beard — thick, reddish brown and very long. He claims it’s worth a million bucks, but I think we might have a contender right here in Napa.
Our beard is definitely worth at least half that.
Hair kept growing on the bottom of it. And growing.
It’s a beard, he said, when I asked him what was going on.
I’m growing a beard.
My husband has been known to grow a goatee or mustache/chin hair combo. Even a short, trimmed up beard. But this was definitely Beard 2.0. And it was getting longer by the day.
Here’s the thing about beards. They don’t just arrive full grown. They kind of sneak up on the people you live with. If the man of the house stops shaving, it takes about a week before the rest of us catch wind of this new creation. And then one day there it is.
A beard.
What’s the inspiration for the beard? I asked.
He reminded me about the upcoming wine competitions he’ll be judging at. I guess most wine judge types go for the clean-shaved look.
A beard might be one way of differentiating himself amidst the other oenophiles sniffing inside their wine glasses.
Or maybe the beard will help capture the wine “bouquet” more effectively.
Either way, he’ll definitely stand out.
The girls were a little dubious about Dad’s new look.
How long are you going to let it grow? they asked.
Is it hot?
Is it itchy?
Is that all gray hair?
The reporter in me was also curious. What kind of beard are you going for?
Former Giant Brian Wilson? Merlin Olsen from “Little House on the Prairie”? “Duck Dynasty”?
None of the above, apparently. After some consideration, he texted me his beard inspirations: sailor Sven Yrvind, castaway Tom Hanks and Zach Galifianakis.
I had to Google the first guy. Sure enough, he’s a sailor who possesses some mighty facial hair. And all white, I should note.
Tom Hanks’ beard in “Cast Away” was quite magnificent, too.
I don’t know about the third reference. Maybe I’ve got the “Hangover” movies on my mind but I kind of wonder how clean Zach Galifianakis keeps his beard.
Turns out that once you have a beard, it’s like joining a new club.
My husband has reported that beard wearers like to acknowledge each other.
Kind of like when a woman sees another woman wearing a really cute pair of shoes. Only beard guys just nod in a manly way at each other. They don’t ask where the other guy got his beard and if it was on sale.
After Googling Sven Yrvind, I came across this Australian guy by the name of Jimmy Niggles. In honor of a good friend who passed away, he’s been growing a beard for years.
And it really is some beard — thick, reddish brown and very long. He claims it’s worth a million bucks, but I think we might have a contender right here in Napa.
Our beard is definitely worth at least half that.
Monday, March 17, 2014
SAT survival
What’s worse than waking your teenager up early on a Saturday morning?
Waking your teenager up early on a Saturday morning so she can take a test.
Not just any test. The SAT.
Yeah, that test. The one that certain colleges are apparently sooooo into. And take very seriously, as in without a score of approximately 3,951 you’re not coming to our college, no way, no how. We don’t care who your momma is.
Scholarship givers are also kind of obsessed with SAT numbers.
For example, the highest score wins. Which I guess is OK if you are the one with the money and in charge of handing it out.
But we are not the ones with the money, we are the ones looking for the money, which meant that last weekend I had the Worst Mom Job Ever — waking our 16-year-old up early so she could go do a whole bunch of math at 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday.
Proper Photo Identification is another big SAT thing.
Apparently — shocker! — there are some students who imagine they can send some super-smart impostor to take the SAT test for them.
This explains why I had to spend three days hounding our 11th-grader about finding her student ID so she could prove to those SAT ID checkers that she really was her super-smart self.
SAT testers are very specific about what to bring on test day:
Exactly two No. 2 pencils and a “soft” eraser.
A snack.
A water bottle.
But no cellphones. Students caught using cellphones can get kicked out of the SAT.
No parent who just paid $50 to make her teenager do word problems on a Saturday morning wants to get a call an hour later saying come get your kid who just got kicked out of the SAT for texting her boyfriend.
Students also need a high-tech calculator (the kind that always seems to be missing the day before test day) and extra batteries.
The day before the test, I put new batteries into the calculator, and then put it, along with the pencils, eraser, student ID, test ticket, a water bottle and a snack, into a big Ziploc bag.
There. Everything is perfectly visible and nice and organized. I can now continue my fretting about those weird SAT analogy questions and square roots.
At the school that morning, I handed our girl the plastic baggie with her test-taking survival items securely zippered within.
“A Ziploc bag?” she said. Really?
It’s all there, I said. Ready to go.
Grumbling, she got out of the car, Ziploc bag in hand.
Four hours later, I waited outside the school. As the kids started leaving the classrooms, no one looked overly traumatized.
Most of them just looked like they wanted to take a nap.
Right before our girl came out, I saw one boy leaving.
Guess what he was carrying?
A big Ziploc bag with a water bottle and calculator in it.
Waking your teenager up early on a Saturday morning so she can take a test.
Not just any test. The SAT.
Yeah, that test. The one that certain colleges are apparently sooooo into. And take very seriously, as in without a score of approximately 3,951 you’re not coming to our college, no way, no how. We don’t care who your momma is.
Scholarship givers are also kind of obsessed with SAT numbers.
For example, the highest score wins. Which I guess is OK if you are the one with the money and in charge of handing it out.
But we are not the ones with the money, we are the ones looking for the money, which meant that last weekend I had the Worst Mom Job Ever — waking our 16-year-old up early so she could go do a whole bunch of math at 8:30 a.m. on a Saturday.
Proper Photo Identification is another big SAT thing.
Apparently — shocker! — there are some students who imagine they can send some super-smart impostor to take the SAT test for them.
This explains why I had to spend three days hounding our 11th-grader about finding her student ID so she could prove to those SAT ID checkers that she really was her super-smart self.
SAT testers are very specific about what to bring on test day:
Exactly two No. 2 pencils and a “soft” eraser.
A snack.
A water bottle.
But no cellphones. Students caught using cellphones can get kicked out of the SAT.
No parent who just paid $50 to make her teenager do word problems on a Saturday morning wants to get a call an hour later saying come get your kid who just got kicked out of the SAT for texting her boyfriend.
Students also need a high-tech calculator (the kind that always seems to be missing the day before test day) and extra batteries.
The day before the test, I put new batteries into the calculator, and then put it, along with the pencils, eraser, student ID, test ticket, a water bottle and a snack, into a big Ziploc bag.
There. Everything is perfectly visible and nice and organized. I can now continue my fretting about those weird SAT analogy questions and square roots.
At the school that morning, I handed our girl the plastic baggie with her test-taking survival items securely zippered within.
“A Ziploc bag?” she said. Really?
It’s all there, I said. Ready to go.
Grumbling, she got out of the car, Ziploc bag in hand.
Four hours later, I waited outside the school. As the kids started leaving the classrooms, no one looked overly traumatized.
Most of them just looked like they wanted to take a nap.
Right before our girl came out, I saw one boy leaving.
Guess what he was carrying?
A big Ziploc bag with a water bottle and calculator in it.
Monday, March 03, 2014
Here kitty kitty
One Huffman daughter accused me of wanting to get a cat so I’d have something to pick up and cuddle.
Hey, if certain teenagers let me pick them up and hug them, I would. It’s not my fault they don’t want to sit on my lap anymore.
The Huffman cat talk got real after a visit to the animal shelter where we clamped eyes on a black kitten with white paws, white whiskers — and get this — a little white mustache. Nothing is cuter than a cat with a mini mustache.
On her first day in her new home, the kitty took tentative steps and slowly inched her way around the floor of the girls’ bedroom.
Oh she’s shy, I thought. How cute.
The whole “I’m so shy” thing didn’t last long.
About 12 minutes later the cat figured out she had the whole house to conquer, which she immediately did, to the dog’s distress.
She bounded up the stairs like a kitty version of Mount Everest. She climbed the screen door like Kitten and the Beanstalk.
She used dad’s beard as a grooming tool. She scaled the pant legs of one Huffman daughter like a ladder.
She also spent a fair amount of time chasing her own tail, randomly scurrying from room to room and walking on keyboards while humans tried to type.
It’s been two weeks since the kitty, now named Inky, became a part of the family. Even the dog is semi-tolerating her cuteness, although usually while attempting to sniff her butt.
Sure there were some wrong turns. The kitty pooped in some wrong places. She peed in another wrong place. She almost gave the dog a heart attack when she tried to eat the dog’s food.
Apparently it is very hard work being a kitten and frequent rest breaks are needed. The kitty has napped on laps, on iPads, on shoulders and in a squished up cardboard box.
She napped with her head upside down, hidden under a pillow and all four paws in the air à la “dead cat.” She does not seem to do much napping at night, which lead to some serious strategizing of where the cat should sleep. As in, alone.
Before we got our kitten, cats were pretty much off my radar. Not anymore.
YouTube cat videos? Hilarious! Kitty pictures on Facebook? Can’t get enough of them! Cat toys at Target? Buying them! All!
I believe Inky approves of her new home because she purrs. A lot. There’s nothing like a purring kitten to make a grown-up go all gushy inside.
A purring kitten is like Valium for the ears. It puts you in a purring trance. This could be useful for the next time the girls break out in a fight. I’ll just pass them the purring kitten and see how long the battle lasts.
I knew a cat would be good for something.
Hey, if certain teenagers let me pick them up and hug them, I would. It’s not my fault they don’t want to sit on my lap anymore.
The Huffman cat talk got real after a visit to the animal shelter where we clamped eyes on a black kitten with white paws, white whiskers — and get this — a little white mustache. Nothing is cuter than a cat with a mini mustache.
On her first day in her new home, the kitty took tentative steps and slowly inched her way around the floor of the girls’ bedroom.
Oh she’s shy, I thought. How cute.
The whole “I’m so shy” thing didn’t last long.
About 12 minutes later the cat figured out she had the whole house to conquer, which she immediately did, to the dog’s distress.
She bounded up the stairs like a kitty version of Mount Everest. She climbed the screen door like Kitten and the Beanstalk.
She used dad’s beard as a grooming tool. She scaled the pant legs of one Huffman daughter like a ladder.
She also spent a fair amount of time chasing her own tail, randomly scurrying from room to room and walking on keyboards while humans tried to type.
It’s been two weeks since the kitty, now named Inky, became a part of the family. Even the dog is semi-tolerating her cuteness, although usually while attempting to sniff her butt.
Sure there were some wrong turns. The kitty pooped in some wrong places. She peed in another wrong place. She almost gave the dog a heart attack when she tried to eat the dog’s food.
Apparently it is very hard work being a kitten and frequent rest breaks are needed. The kitty has napped on laps, on iPads, on shoulders and in a squished up cardboard box.
She napped with her head upside down, hidden under a pillow and all four paws in the air à la “dead cat.” She does not seem to do much napping at night, which lead to some serious strategizing of where the cat should sleep. As in, alone.
Before we got our kitten, cats were pretty much off my radar. Not anymore.
YouTube cat videos? Hilarious! Kitty pictures on Facebook? Can’t get enough of them! Cat toys at Target? Buying them! All!
I believe Inky approves of her new home because she purrs. A lot. There’s nothing like a purring kitten to make a grown-up go all gushy inside.
A purring kitten is like Valium for the ears. It puts you in a purring trance. This could be useful for the next time the girls break out in a fight. I’ll just pass them the purring kitten and see how long the battle lasts.
I knew a cat would be good for something.
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