turandot's blog

The Giving Tree, Real World Edition

Are you familiar with the Giving Tree? It's a children's book and parable about unconditional love all in one. Beautiful, right? Being a fable, of course, is its failing in some ways. 

So here's what probably really happened to the giving tree. 

The Giving Tree found itself supremely unhappy. The boy would often complain tacitly about all that the tree had lost, because it had been freely given out of love. The tree could not bear disappointing the boy. For years, it was wracked with doubt as to whether it was worthy of the boy's love, such as it was. Those thoughts tormented it, and when the tree would state in front of the boy "Oh, but I chose to give you my fruit, my branches, and my trunk because I loved you, and so in my eyes there really wasn't a choice as to whether I should give these things or not. I am upset to hear it has reduced your enjoyment of me. That is not what I wanted."

The boy, of course, reacted to that by telling the tree, incredulously: "What????? I never suggested you should make that choice rather than choose to put yourself first. I asked for things that I would have liked to have, but I never said that you should give them to me. You can't suddenly tell me you're unhappy about having given up your apples/branches/trunk freely. I neither wanted nor enjoyed that sacrifice. BTW, I make sacrifices too. But I don't go around telling people how unhappy I am. Perhaps it's because I think those things through a lot more than you do."

The tree did not know what to do. Those words told it that maybe its hunch that it was not worthy of the boy's love, such as it was, was absolutely on target. So for years and years, it felt itself and its love wither, and struggle with guilt at that. 

One day, the boy mentioned how the tree not having any shade whatsoever anymore was just a source of financial worry. "You know, I can no longer claim a tax for your shade. We're just gonna have to figure out how to fix this problem together." The tree cried. The boy said "Now, wait a minute. This is why I don't even really look forward to these important conversations. You're taking my statement of fact so personally. I'm not accusing you of anything." But the tree cried and cried, just the same. 

It stopped being able to even draw nourishment for sleep, for sleep would not come. It stayed up half the night, reviewing all its mistakes. They had been many. Some of the mistakes had to do with giving in the first place. Others, with doing things to justify its worth in the eyes of the boy. One still had been an accident, rather than an outright mistake. The tree wasn't even sure if that was a good or bad thing, and besides, to figure that out would take precious rest time that it didn't have to begin with.

The tree then had to figure out what to do next. But it had a realization. "The main problem is that I am so unhappy because I do not feel like I have anything of worth to give to the boy. If I had, I reasoned, he would at least begrudgingly acknowledge that my mistakes were made out of love. But, I am worthy. If anything, my love was given selflessly for so long. All I asked for was a recognition that I had sacrificed, and why. When that didn't come, how foolish was I? I told myself it must be that I wasn't worthy if that recognition didn't come. I should have realized years ago that if anything, if my sacrifices meant next to nothing to the boy, other than inconveniences to be dealt with or worked around of, that made the boy unworthy of me, not the other way around."

When the tree realized that, it laughed itself to sleep, with a vague promise that it would never forget the realization it had, ever again. 

If only the tale ended there. 

Upon waking, the tree noticed that a flower around it was missing. The tree accumulated such things so it could bear its endless tendency to wither. Such trinkets helped remind it that life could still be beautiful. It had been so preoccupied with its thoughts last night that it hadn't noticed the missing flower until now.

The tree asked "Oh, where pray did the flower go?"

To which the boy's children responded "One of us took it"

"Why?"

"Because I liked it, and I wanted it", said the culprit.

To which the tree could not help but reply "ARE you F&*@ing kidding me???? How would you like it if I just started taking your stuff without so much as asking?"

The child who answered just shrugged. After all, it was the way all these things always worked out.

The tree wasn't ready to let it go "It's called stealing, and I don't like people who steal"

"Do you not like me?"

"Well yes, as a matter of fact, you stole my stuff and didn't so much as sound sorry to do so. I don't think I like you very much right now."

"Will you ever like me again?"

"For starters, I'll need an apology. And I'll need assurances you're not going about your whole life taking things that don't belong to you because you want them. What the ever loving F&*@? No decent person does that."

If only we could say that the tree was once more pleased and peaceful. Nope. Sorry. The truth of the matter was, it lived with more than one ungrateful boy. And it was done tolerating ungratefulness. So it just yelled at the children until they had done everything needed to be out of its sight.

The Giving Tree was f&*@ing done giving. Whether for a while or for good, it didn't even know.

The Loudmouth

You totally know my family and I are going somewhere these days. You know because you can hear us shushing my 3 year old wherever we go, which seems to create an eruption of "But I WAS being QUIET!" complete with toddler sobbing. 

I remember when my daughter was a baby. She was very lively and loud, to my chagrin. She'd reach out to strangers and coo, causing many a conversation to initiate. People love talking about and talking to babies. Fortunately, beyond her babyhood, my girl doesn't seem interested in being the loudest kid in the room. Part of it is, probably, that she hates loud noises, and she knows that if she raises her voice, I'm likely to raise my own.

Her little brother, however, has no compunction with loud noises (save those of dams, which apparently are too loud for anyone under the age of 5). In fact, he relishes loud people with glee. He recognizes kindred spirits, no doubt. He also will, by this point, develop none of the reserved demeanor the rest of the family has. 

This is the 3 year old who just this week ran at full speed towards a stranger at indoor playground, plopped in her lap, trained his grey eyes on her, and said "throw me in the ball pit!", because he had seen her do the same with the toddler she was nannying. The same 3 year old who decided that being complimented on his batman shirt by myself and his sister wasn't enough, so he turned to a table full of strangers, scanned them for a mom, and declared "Look! Look at my t-shirt!". The lady admired it, like a good sport, while I told him that she was there to eat, and he needed to do the same. So he thanked her for the compliment, and returned to eat for 5 seconds, after which he decided he needed to climb on me. 

This is the former gerber baby who shamelessly flirted with every woman over 30 for the better part of his first year of life (I do mean flirting: if any attractive woman within a 50 ft. radius didn't coo over him, he'd army crawl and later toddle towards her, as if to say "perhaps you haven't quite noticed how cute I am"). This is the former 2 year old who answered to calls of "Who's the cutest baby ever?" with "ME! ME!!!". Shy, he is not. 

Quiet, he isn't either. I'm learning that he could not care less that his mother prefers a quiet conversation to loud, non-stop shrieking. If he's happy, you will know it. If he's sad, you will know it. If he's imaginative, you will know that too. His robots don't quietly get lined up, they get put in a plastic bin that has to be shaken to simulate meteors shaking and exploding. If he likes someone, he will think nothing of going up to them and say "Play with me!", which often will evolve into "Let's pretend my mom is a monster chasing us, and we beat her up!". 

I'm learning to take my lumps. I daresay I'm getting quite good at screaming "Help! Help! I'm being attacked by angry villagers!". If you can't beat them, join them, I suppose.

Potty Training Hell

I did myself a disservice reading horror stories of potty training kids on the spectrum around the time my (already potty trained) daughter was diagnosed. It put into perspective how she could show signs of readiness to potty at 18 months old, and yet not really get the hang of it until she was 3. It somehow convinced me that if I waited long enough with the next kid, and said kid wasn't on the spectrum, it wouldn't be too bad. 

Of course it's turning out to be the worst few weeks ever. 

In hindsight, as hard as it seemed to potty train said kid on the spectrum, there were distinct advantages that I didn't consider: (1) she was incapable of lying to my face about not having to go; (2) her sensory issues ensured that she hated being soiled; and (3) her innate perfectionism ensured that she took the whole endeavor very seriously. The latter point actually makes me feel bad in hindsight: as much as I tried not to react negatively to accidents, she was guaranteed to have a meltdown every time we ever had an accident. 

This time around, I have a don't give a F*&% almost 4 year old to potty train. I'm not sure what's going on with him. He can go potty, and does.. He just fights it. He also can lie to my face and vehemently deny he needs to go potty, only to let it loose 2 seconds later in front of a waiting room full of people. If only this were a fluke accident, I could take it in stride, but after a first week of relatively few accidents, this was the third such accident in a row. Sigh. 

I thought I did everything right. I waited as long as humanly possible. I looked for all sorts of signs that he might be ready. We've been sitting him on the potty after meals for months. I thought he really had this down. I talked up the process, and being a big kid. He even understands when and how to wipe, and has never been afraid to flush. 

Bottom line, and I hate to say this about my own kid, is that he's smart and lazy. He knows he doesn't have to go sit on the potty if he doesn't want to, and knows that I'll swoop in and clean the messes in spite of protestations about how this is his problem. In fact, he might not even mind sitting in soiled underwear. I've gone so far as trying to appeal to his sense of shame by going "Yuck. This is gross. Gross. There's [bodily fluid] everywhere, and I have to clean all that up, and OMG, I just can't." His response? "It's ok, mommy. *pat pat* It's okay to make mistakes, mommy."

Should have known this would happen with the kid that once had the pediatrician concerned that he wasn't showing signs of wanting to walk, had him come in for a special consult, and pronounced him "perfectly toned and capable to do it, just reluctant", and that he would start walking once I started refusing to carry him everywhere he couldn't crawl.* 

Honestly, I'm this close to giving up for now and waiting until he's 70 lbs. and in kindergarten using Depends and being made fun of by the other kids. That's assuming he wouldn't just take it in stride.  



* This was the polite way to tell me my kid is just lazy as fuck, honestly.

Bedtime Conversations

My six year old hates going to bed. Hates it. So it is that for the last couple of years, since she's become finally able to have conversations, she keeps finding ways to keep me talking to her.

I've had conversations about what death is. I've had conversations about the phases of the moon. I've had conversations about anything under the sun. For the most part, I try to answer questions, but with an eye towards not letting it take up more than a few minutes. Every once in a while, I've had to resort to the "last question" card (as in, "I know you have lots of questions about this, but you also need to get some sleep, so I'm just gonna answer one more question, and we can save the rest for tomorrow") every once in a while, but for the most part, our conversations only take a few minutes away from bedtime.

Moreover, they're often a rare window into the mind of a kid who, for the most part, is very reticent to share her thoughts on anything.

Tonight, we talked about families and marriage. 

"Mom, some kids have two moms, and some kids have two dads."

"You're right. And some kids might not have a mom or a dad around, but a grandparent or aunt or uncle."

"Huh"

"You know what matters? That kids have families, and their family love them, no matter what kind of family."

"But some families have two dads, or two moms. Girls can have two moms or two dads, and boys can have two moms or two dads."

"Yep, and that's ok. It doesn't matter what your family looks like, just that you have one. Goodnight, bunny."

"I don't have to marry anyone who's mean to me. Like if they tell me I have to marry them, I will say 'no, I won't'."

"Yep. When people marry, it's usually to live together for a long time, so you should always try to marry someone who will be nice to you."

"But you won't stop being my family."

"No, baby. I never will. You can come visit me whenever you want."

"Or I could clean my room up and take a lot of toys out, and get a bigger bed so there's room for whoever I marry. Then I can still live with you."

"That's another way to do it. We'll see. But honey, you should go to sleep. Night night."

"Good night"

Good night, my baby. You'll always be my baby.

 

The Three Year Old Experience

Last time I was contending with a three year old, I was preoccupied with a few other things. To name one, I had a newborn on my hands, which was sucking up all my energy and sleep. As it turns out, I was also dealing with a decrease in thyroid hormones, which likely wasn't doing wonders for me. So my daughter's fourth year on this earth (which technically begins after you turn 3) was kind of a haze.

I would probably add to it now that in spite of having lost a lot of verbal abilities and the corresponding patience for other people trying to decipher her will between 2 and 3 because of ASD, the daughter was apparently the easy kid, or so it seems in hindsight. She wasn't the sort of kid to take off her diaper and sprint around the house naked. Or the kind of kid who would climb a couch and launch herself down from the shoulder face first.

Which brings us to the current three year old. In spite of his continued plea for a baby brother (I swear this kid loves babies more than I do, and I adore babies!), there isn't a newborn around to distract me and deprive me of sleep. Given that, I'm noticing some things.

To wit: three year olds are pure id. Thank god they know very little, and can't sit very still for long, or the average three year olds would be evil geniuses. Mine can tell a whopper of a story when he puts his mind to it, which doesn't happen often because he's more likely racing around a room at full speed dragging around various toys he has tied together with rope or a string. Or trying to figure out how to jump from piece of furniture to piece of furniture without ever touching the floor.

It's been suggested that on top of daily preschool, he might benefit from extra curricular sports. Alas, most soccer leagues don't take children still in diapers, and frequenting drop in playtime at our local kid gymnasium has mostly proven that he would be the bane of many a gymnastic coach's existence. He's a pure machine of will and daring. What he really might benefit from is some sort of toddler fight club. As it is, I have to warn him that most kids are not into wrestling at first meet, otherwise he greets with a "I'm knocking you down!" right before he tackles them.

It's a good thing he wasn't a first child. There likely wouldn't have been another.

Onward

This morning, my daughter was complaining about something inevitable. I believe it was something to the effect of there being an extra bed in her room that we use when we have guests. "We're not gonna have guests right now, so we probably can put the extra bed away for a while." Cue the tears. I found myself sighing, as I often do when I feel frustrated by how kids tend to blow up little problems into big problems.

"Mom, why are you sighing?"
"You noticed, huh?"
"Why are you upset?"
"Because it's very exhausting to be around someone who keeps complaining about decisions that cannot be changed."

The irony being, this is exactly what a lot of people around me, myself included, have been doing for quite a few days. I probably don't need to go into details as to the decisions in questions. Assuming you have access to a TV or the internet, you probably know what kind of decisions people have been complaining about. The thing about it is, horrible idea or not, sometimes you just need to accept what the decision is, and move on. Acceptance doesn't mean you're folding house and leaving, per se. Nor does it mean you agree with the decision. Sometimes it just means you tell yourself "Ok, this didn't work out. How do I move on towards my goals?"

I have some ideas about that, ideologically speaking. I believe one party let themselves be cowered from following through on the ideals based on The Other America: namely that it is unthinkable that in a nation that thinks of itself as wealthy, so many people struggle to make ends meet. For myself, the ideals behind the so called "war of poverty" is what attracted me to the Democratic Party in the first place: the ideals that if you're struggling to make ends meet, for whatever reason, we are in your corner.

Sensing a political backlash from said war, the Democratic party has spent the last 20 or so years moving away from advocating for the disadvantaged, into advocating for equal rights for everyone. Don't get me wrong, there is much to admire in the switch. The impetus behind it is that if we could treat everyone around equally, then everyone would thrive. In a purely ideal world, that's the perfect switch to make once the realization hits that whatever economic programs a state enacts do not in fact leave everyone targeted better off.

However, switching from an economically-based ideological track of equality into a more theoretically human-rights based track could not, of necessity, come without leaving behind some people who still needed help. It isn't a platitude on my part. It's a fact. Caring for minorities of any kind and caring for the poor isn't mutually exclusive. However, when you take one side of the equation and favor it over the other, there are some people that are going to be left out because they don't happen to belong to both categories.

In so doing, the people sacrificed in the name of not being labeled and accused of "liberal socialism" were essentially left to fend for themselves. In this climate, it seems fairly easy for someone to swoop in and say "See? They don't care about your welfare, not really. They just care about the other guys.". This is exactly what the other party has been doing all these years.

Now, in calm and rational times, one should be able to reflect and say "I'm sorry, but... How are you any better than the other party? How exactly do you propose to do things that benefit me, and what exactly would that involve on my part?". That said, a lot of rural America does not have the luxury of calm and rational times. They are seeing a lot of opportunities inevitably disappear, and seeing a lot more despairing and self-defeating behavior (think: opiate epidemic that is destroying many rural communities) appear. In such straits, it's human to give into hopelessness and rage. 

Rage isn't so bad. In the right circumstances, rage helps things move forward. But a shortcoming of rage, and I should know this because (as my husband not so fondly reminds me) it's my to go mode when I'm pissed off, is that the forward momentum can often come with blind and reckless grasping. It propels us forward, but not necessarily with a clear idea of what a better outcome is.

There was a lot of rage voting out there. I suspect that some of those voters have had ample time to recognize that in their rage they either abstained from voting when they should not have, or voted in any perceived good outcome for themselves without weighing what else they needed to give up in return. In their rage, they might not even have realized they had anything left that they might be trading away.

Time will tell. For now, we just move forward, for better or worse. I think those of us who didn't like the outcome of this election can ill afford to engage in the usual scoffing of "why did you vote against your interests?". That response doesn't really serve anyone, winners or losers. On the other hand, I believe that some soul searching is granted.

Moving forward doesn't just mean blindly raging ahead. Moving forward can also mean reflection and searching.

Toddler Tall Tales

So much has happened the past two months that I'd love to talk about, but a lot of it would require individual back stories (i.e., the struggle that was my thesis magically resolving once I decided to ditch it in favor of something else; how the big kiddo is adjusting to kindergarten, etc.). I honestly don't think I have the presence of mind for it.

What I do have is a temporary need to stop thinking about my thesis, after looking at the latest revisions, and finding out it's not as bad as I imagined it might be, but not a walk in the park either. So here goes a story about the three year old and the emergence of white lies.

Mr. V started telling whoppers around his third birthday. It all started with me putting some chalkboard paper on his walls so he'd have something to scribble on when the mood struck, or so I could put notes on it, like "need more diapers" or the like. Almost immediately, someone "mysteriously" made a game of pulling it off the wall. Frustrated, I joked to the toddler "Don't tell me! Daddy did it?", only for Mr. V. to respond with "Yeah. I told daddy not to do it. But daddy did it, and I'm sorry." I thought it was funny until I told the husband about it, and we looked at each other and it dawned on us: this kid can lie. Not convincingly, but he's already got it.

Having a kid on the spectrum, this is a new one. At best, my daughter lies by omission. She might not tell you something bad happened unless you directly ask, at which point, the truth always comes tumbling out. Creative lying, on the other hand, is beyond her, and while she can spot when other people do it, her reaction is to shrug it off as more of the silly stuff people do, which is a step up from her preschool years, when she would routinely quip "mommy, why did [person] just lie?" in the loudest voice she could possibly muster.

But Mr. V has been at fancy tales and imaginings for as long as he's been able to utter multiple sentences, which has been about a year now. He'll come up with things out of nowhere like "Mommy, I'm gonna steal Parker's* baby.", which prompted an explanation about how Parker would miss his little sister, not to mention that Parker's mommy would never allow it. And there's also the times when he comes up to me and says "mommy, I wanna be a baby today." and sticks a pacifier in his mouth (this from the kid who actually never used the self same pacifier as a baby, but discovered it in a drawer last spring and wondered what it was).

So why should I be surprised that we have made up an evil robot who does bad things? It started with an epic head butting at bedtime. The husband had supervised bathtime, and Mr V was in his PJs and ready for bed. The toddler got passed from arms to arms as happens a million times. Only, sometimes he gets excited about reading time with me, and he wiggles. He even wiggles a little jig sometimes. Even knowing this, I held out my arms a fraction too long, and somehow his head connected with my mouth. Hard. My teeth still hurt, even though nothing seems broken. My bottom lip is still quite fat, nearly 24 hours later.

In the moment, I was in such pain that I started screaming and crying out of ... well ... pain. I handed Mr V back to his dad and ran off to the bathroom to make sure my front teeth were still where they should be. Mr V burst into tears because (a) the impact must have hurt for him too and (b) he was worried about me.

Five minutes later, I got to his room, Mr. V got on my lap, and I could talk through the pain, even though tears were still streaming down. I held him and tried to kiss his head through the side of my mouth, while telling him it was ok, everything was going to be okay. Within 5 minutes he was calm, and even trying to brush out my tears. And then... "Mommy? Daddy told the bad robot to trip me. Then I hit you and you got hurted."

"Buddy, it wasn't a bad robot. It was an accident."
"No, mommy, it was the bad robot's fault. He's mean."
"Baby, no. An accident means it was nobody's fault. I didn't mean to hit your head, and you didn't mean to hit my face."
"I know. It was the bad robot."
"No, no, it just happened. That's why they call them accidents. Hey, are you ready to pick out a book to read?"

I honestly thought the bad robot would just be forgotten. But this morning, as I was driving my tot to preschool, he pipes up "Mommy? Sam's family got stealed by bad robots, and he had to go be a ninja." I reassured him that there was no bad robot, and that Sam* would be at school ready to play cars, the way he always is. "But what if the bad robot comes to steal you and Giada and daddy away when I'm at school?". I replied that the bad robot could never, ever steal us.

"You sure?."
"Yes. I'll just make him go away."

He seemed to believe me. For now, at least, no tall tale can measure up to the fact that mom can be pretty adamant about no one being stolen away, or bad robots making us do bad things. Let's hope that lays the bad robot's evil deeds to rest.


*Names changed to protect other presumably innocent toddlers.

The Literacy Bug

The other day, I dusted off a book I more or less handcrafted from scratch during my teaching program, part of a project for a literacy class, whereby we were supposed to create a picture book. It was a book about Boris and Gracie, specifically, a childlike retelling of how Boris met Gracie, aka the interloper kitten who eventually became his best friend.


V had been talking about cats most of the evening. When it came time to read before bed, he kept saying "I wanna read a book about Bowis kitty", even as I offered him other choices ("The Tale of Peter Rabbit", which we also read, and a few other books whose titles escape me right now). After telling him "But honey, there are no books about our cats.", it occurred to me that strictly speaking, it wasn't true. So it was that we read the book together. V was not very impressed with it, and asked the barest of all basic questions ("But why doesn't he like the kitten?", "Why is she sad?"). G heard us read as she came in to kiss her brother goodnight.*

"What's that?" she asked.
"Oh, it's this book I had to make for school"
"About kitties?"
"Not just any cats. It's about Boris and Gracie. I thought Vincent might like to read it."

As soon as I put the book down, G snatched it, and ran off to her room. I finished up reading with V (who will allow nothing less than three books being read before begrudgingly allowing the light to go off), and moved on to reading with G. I noticed a few months back that she had become bored with simpler chapter books, so we've been reading longish books, and a few simple chapter books, like the Clementine series, Mr. Popper's Penguins, and the Ramona Quimby series. The latter is definitely a favorite thus far. So I picked up the one we were currently reading (Ramona The Brave), and reminded her of where we left off before starting off.

"Mama, I wanna read a different book first."
"Not Ramona first?"
"No, because sometimes the chapters are long, and we don't have time to read something else."
"Okay. What do you wanna read first?"
"This one"

She was holding the makeshift Kitty book. "Oh, that one, huh?", I go, and motion for her to hand it over. I read it while she looks on, until midway through, when she starts peppering me with questions.

 

"Where was I?"

"You weren't born yet"
"Okay. Where do babies come from?"
"From a mommy's belly. Remember how my belly got big and fat before Vincent was born?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, before that, you grew in my belly. You started out this tiny [*holds finger apart one millimeter*] and then you were as big as your doll [*points to 18 inch baby doll*]"
"So I'm not in the book?"
"No. But you know, maybe we should write a follow up book. We could call it 'When the Baby Came To Live with Us'."

"And with pictures of me!"

I thought that would end there, but it didn't. This morning I read an email from her teacher. She mentioned that G had been busy working on a story "about an evil kitty". I thought nothing of it, because it wouldn't be the first time she's made up elaborate stories that make little sense to anyone else but her. While we were reading tonight, my 5 year old shyly showed me a bundle of drawings held together by two clothespins.

"I made a book!"
"You did? What about?"
"It's about me and the cats"
"Oh, I see. Should we read it?"
"Okay."
"You gotta help me though. I don't really know what's going on. It's your book."
"This is me and the cats."
"Why does Boris have six legs?"
"I dunno."
"Is he running?"
"Yes, he's running away from me. And I'm a baby."
"You are?"
"Yes. And here I am in my crib. And there's you, mommy?"
"Where are the cats?"
"They're hiding in the closet."**
"Are they scared?"

"Yes."
"And what's this?"
"We're in the car. We're going to the doctor."

"And the cats?"
*shrug*
"Oh, in this one, you're in bed."
"Yes."
"Maybe we can finish this book later?"
"Can we finish it tomorrow?"
"Sure!"
"But with words written down and everything?"
"Okay. I can write down the words for you!"

... And just like that, I talked myself into another book. :P

---

* It's a cute thing she started doing, after so many years of pretty much being indifferent or outright considering him a pest.
** Back when my daughter was scared of cats, she constantly heard the story of how Gracie hid in our linen closet the first week she was home, to drive home the point that she couldn't possibly be scared of a creature who was that scared of a baby.

How to Get Fat Again

I have acquired Lyle's Golden Syrup after years of non-use. It used to be a staple of my baking, prior to children. Then I forgot it existed for a few years. I see caramel bars and all sorts of cookie-like confections in my immediate future (it could of course be used as just syrup, but that would be a waste). At least I have young taste testers around.

If Boris Could Speak English

I love my cats. That said, cats are basically toddlers with four legs and fur, which means that they don't give a shit about anything other than their needs, and yet fail to communicate them in direct ways. Just like toddlers, they each also have very distinct personalities: one of them is pretty aloof unless she wants attention, in which case she just gets in your face and gets what should by all rights be hers (total and utter worship, in case you were wondering), whereas the other is the equivalent of that toddler that cries about everything, only pausing long enough to get into yet more trouble that will ultimately not end well.

So here's how my conversations with Boris (the whiny one) go on a daily basis, translated in English (you're welcome).

On Feeding Times

"Let me sing the song of woe of my peop..."

"Dude, it's 3:30. Not feeding you for another hour."

glare "People. It's long, so it takes a while for me to warm up to it."

"Your scare tactics don't work with me."

"Dang it! Maybe if I moved closer?"

"Nope."

"Why do you hate me?"

"Ask the vet."

On "Found" Food

cough

"Why are you making that noise? Are you...? Goddammit! What did you get into now?"

"That's" cough "Not. Important. What's important is it was" cough

"Worth it?"

makes the sound of hacking out a lung "Still. Worth it."

"Dude. You know your stomach is made of contact paper. Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"

"I wouldn't have to eat the toddler's discarded food if you hadn't decided it was OK to starve me"

"I wouldn't call three meals a day being starved."

"You just don't understand. Food bowls are never meant to be empty. Murderer."

On Toddlers

"He's bothering me again"

"Move."

goes fetal

"Look, it's not my fault you don't move. The other cat does. She must be the smart one."

"I was here first."

"Technically, I was here before all the rest of you. I still know better than to expect peace and quiet."

"Fine. I'll move." moves about a foot

"That's not gonna help enough."

"Well, duh. That's why I'm telling you about the bothersome toddler."

On not Being the Center of Attention

"I saw that."

"Well, she asked for pets, what am I supposed to do?"

"Pet ME! ME!!!!!"

"You didn't ask."

"I was getting around to it."

"Okay, what am I supposed to do while I wait?"

"Pet ME! ME! ME! I demand reparations."

"Oh, alright. Settle down. uses baby talk voice 'Yes, yes, you're the best kitty ever. You're my baby. I love you and only you'. There, you happy?"

"I'd be happier if you fed me..."

"Goddamn it, does it always have to come back to food?"

"Food is LIFE"

"Still not feeding you until [scheduled feeding time]"

"Dang it."

As a bonus, I'm also throwing in there what goes down once a year when we visit the professional whose name must be spelled (V-E-T):

On Visiting the Vet

"No, no, no! I don't wanna be in the carrier."

"Too bad, you need to go in the car"

"NO! The car never goes to good places!"

"C'mon, let's go."

"I will sing the song of woe of my people. SLOWLY. Pitifully. Until you turn the car around" meows like a motherless kitten for the entirety of the car ride

car stops

"Yay! Are we back home?"

"You'll see..."

sniffs air "Dang it. You took me to the bad place again."

"We do this every year. You had to know it was coming."

"It smells like dogs and death. And dogs. And the vet always calls me fat."

"Yep. We're still doing this."

"Dang it."