We’re frantically trying to get ready for the baby, which means full days at work – luckily for Kitten Thunder this means intensive couch time for The Girl with a laptop – and busy evenings.
No matter what I do, I’m well supervised.
In the office while I integrate The Boy’s books onto the bookcase.
In the spare room where I rearrange furniture after The Boy painted.
From under the workbench when I put some tools that had wandered upstairs away.
And from under The Boy’s feet when he thought I was finally going to sit down for a while.
Is it bedtime yet?
The Boy and I continue to do interesting things to entertain Kitten Thunder.
Yesterday, I was sewing. With equal parts help and supervision, of course.
Then The Boy showed up in the living room and started messing with Obi’s tall box. This box has been in the living room for a couple weeks. Obi didn’t know it opened!
For a minute, Obi wasn’t sure he liked what was happening.
He thought maybe we should go back to sewing.
But his sense of duty won out and he returned to Boy supervision.
We were quickly done with putting the pieces of the box together. It was followed by a lot of “where is the button that does this” and “how does that go in” from both people.
Obi, however, figured it out right away.
And today, Oliver discovered it’s a double decker.
Just don’t try to take either of them for a stroll.
Obi’s blogging tonight.
Or something. I can’t really see the screen.
Obi has a good Boy.
He filled the bird feeder tonight.
He came home for lunch, just so he could rub his kitten’s belly.
He did Man Stuff that wasn’t too noisy last night.
And tonight, as he was about to do more Man Stuff, The Boy pointed out that The Girl was about to make the bed. And by “pointed out” I mean he carried the brown kitten upstairs and set him in the middle of the bed.
It would have been tragic if The Girl had made a bed alone.
It’s late at night and I just realized it’s Sunday. We’ve had a very productive weekend with lots of cleaning, napping, and enjoying smell-o-vision.
And, of course, we set up the baby monitor.
With night vision.
For the last two months, yarn balls have been SO last year. If you dug one from under the couch and threw it, Obi would blink at you. Pretty sure you were stupid.
Like he would ever chase a yarn ball.
But this week, yarn balls are THE thing. They’re bigger than flat mousies. Well, not THE flat mousie… But woolly flat mousie for sure. Yarn balls have appeared, one by one, on Obi’s blanky in the loveseat.
But that’s not all.
Now that Obi has his own room – that one that his people are spending so much time decorating – he’s expanding the range for yarn balls. They are also allowed to hang out on the bed. And in packing paper in the hallway if they want. Or wherever Obi is, really, because he carries one with him everywhere.
It’s all a matter of what a kitten needs, really. The red yarn ball is sporty and fast. The blue yarn ball is very wily and will leap all the way across the room.
Yellow yarn ball? That’s a ball you can trust. It plays well. It naps well. It travels well.
It’s a good, well rounded ball.
It’s a yarn ball you can spend the whole day with – unless The Boy doors something stupid… Like throwing it when you’re not interested in chasing it.
It’s so hard to find good help.
I finally finished painting the drawer pulls for the baby’s room today. If course the was help putting them on.
Then, as I sat down to appreciate/recover my work, Kitten Thunder had time to further explore their new play room.
Oliver took some time to study the alphabet fabric. L is for lion, he now knows… Whatever that means.
Things were going well. Everyone was safe and doing reasonable things.
Then I decided to cleverly conceal some electronics in a bag from the baby shower, which happens to match the room perfectly.
I was on a step stool. I did stuff. Obi needed to check it out.
I didn’t mess anything up TOO bad.
And K is for kitteh, he says.
On Saturday, The Boy and I went out for dinner. I had a theory that a thin crusted, veggie pizza might be okay if me to eat even though the baby had given me gestational diabetes. A reasonable portion. With a salad.
I was all sorts of wrong.
So I told The Boy he could eat my leftovers. But, being that we don’t really like thin crust pizza – and he doesn’t like the toppings on this pizza – I wasn’t really surprised the pizza was still in the refrigerator today.
Oliver met me at the refrigerator to help. He was willing, he said, to eat that pizza for me.
I shrugged and put the box on the floor.
He licked. He chewed. He spit out.
He’s with The Boy – and me, for that matter – that particular pizza should go uneaten.
Friday it was warm.
This weekend it rained.
Yesterday it rained and was warm.
Today it was chilly. But sunny.
It felt good on a kitten’s face.
But… Hey, are you taking my picture?
How do you know you’re eight months pregnant? When you can’t see the cat’s toes either.
The Boy bought himself some new boots this weekend. He’s not sure he likes them. They might be the wrong size.
Oliver says that’s too bad.
Because when it comes to boxes there’s exchanges, but no returns.