I am so not a morning person, and neither is George or anyone else around here today.

George was particularly vocal this morning. He let me know as soon as I walked into the apartment.

"Where were you last night? I am not pleased. Unscheduled absences are not part of the program."

As evidence, he performed his favorite acting out behavior. This entails a high-pitched, unearthly howl accompanied by a particularly manic run from the bedroom, down the hall, through the office and circling into the living room with a flying tackle to the back of the Louis XVI arm chair. Said chair, which is very heavy, crashes backwards, hardwood frame to the hardwood floor and the building shakes, all four 17Th century floors of it.

George has grown into a very large, scary, cat.


He spent the night alone because I stayed overnight at ground zero (the Moms' house) to make an easier time of getting the twins to school after being deserted by the last available Mom. Had we known ahead of time that these things come in pairs, and what that entails, we should have recruited more parents. Four for two is no better odds than two for one, and as long as we are being very 21st century in our model of family, we might as well have made it less demanding.

Mornings are very demanding. In fact, we don't seem to be a morning family. Grumpiness abounds, no one is happy with their outfit for the day, there is never enough time to finish drawing super sonic rocket ships, the crust on the bread is always too dark, the milk is always too hot and god forbid the box of straws is empty. The lid on the Banania is never properly fixed, and fingers cannot resist frenetic spirals in the resulting layer of chocolate powder covering the table surface. No need to go into the hygiene and bodily function issues, but did I mention no one is happy with their outfit for the day? It is worth repeating. Simply picking up your clothes which have been carefully culled, and examined for a maximum of clean square footage, and dressing yourself without histrionic commentary, is a completely alien concept.

"But I have to wear the blouse with flowers." No. Dad is firm. Tears flow. Dad is still firm. Many more tears flow. Dad feels like jerk, but no blouse with flowers. Four year-olds do not always get to make their own wardrobe choices. And tears continue to flow.

The decibel level of this process is not appropriate for mornings. And it is confirmed once again...

I
am not
a morning person.

PS: George would like to publicly extend his most heartfelt wishes for a peaceful transition to his spiritual brother in the land of Franco-American households, Leon, who has been going through that most difficult period of ending this life and preparing for whatever else eventually awaits us all. He would also like to apologize to Leon's human for his his own human who seams to have a mental block about blog mime sorts of things. Those are links if anyone else with a soft spot for cats in failing health would like to send a word of support. Bon Courage Leon.