It’s a breezy, too-good-to-be-true Spring day here in Eastern Massachusetts. The kind that pushes visions of sooty snowbanks far to the back of the mind. There will be no more snow now until October. Or December. Mother Nature is a fickle one.
Our world is waking up again, the riot of green has returned, the flowers are showing off, Corgis are corg-a-lorging outdoors once more, and the birds begin chatting before the sun comes up. The neighborhood skunk announces that yes, he’s still here. And no, he’s not going anywhere.
Out of hibernation comes the growl of lawnmowers. The clink of the neighbor’s china as someone sets the dinner table. The buzz and bumble of bees too fat to fly, and yet they do. Time for us to get industrious too, put away the heavy things and bring out the light. The perennial obligation (or pressure from our mothers) to clean rears its weedy little head. After all, while there is light in the sky ’til 8:00, we have time to clean and sit outside too!
Let joy be unconfined!
Well, none of that is happening at my place. Nope, no cleaning here. Why? Because it might scare the cat. The old, sweet cat living out her final days (weeks?) in our home, where I am both gratified and terrified to have her, is highly allergic to cleaning. More precisely, Kitten Girl is allergic to my stress. And housekeeping, for me, equals stress. Nuclear alert level stress. When Mom dives into serious cleaning, something is up — and it ain’t good. Uh-uh.
So the dog didn’t eat my homework, but the cat stopped me from doing my housework. Kitten Girl, you really do rock my ever loving socks. Even in the dotage of your eighteenth year, the drowsy days of your graceful late aging, you impress me. And inspire me. And you get me off the hook for housework! All of this in your sleep.
You really are a wonder, aren’t you?