I spoon my cat. Sue me.

Sundays are usually sluggish around here, but today is different; I am certifiably comatose on the couch.  The coffee is having no effect.  Just asked Husband if he accidentally brewed Decaf. Why is this?  It could be the weather.  The sky is slate and spitting ever so slightly, creating some noteworthy umbrella-confusion among the UWS strollers... 

Or, it could be that I was awakened at 2:53 am. Baby screamed frantically.  I looked at the monitor and she was flailing about on her belly. Not a fan.  So, I promptly hopped up, flipped the Babe, and returned to bed.  But before making the little journey down the hall to the nursery, I noticed something.  I was spooning.  Our cat. 

Now, I have not talked much about the Boys (White Cat and Orange Cat), our firstborn brothers (rescues from the exotic isle of St. Croix) and there is probably a sound reason for this: ever since Toddler and now Baby entered the scene, the Boys have become second class citizens.  Before Toddler was a blip on the screen, these critters were our life.  We took pictures of them.  We dressed them in argyle vests.  We each cradled a cat and watched TV at night.  But no longer.

But last night, I woke up to find White Cat's back pressed up against my chest and our arms were woven together.  It was quite the old school snuggle.  But it was as if Baby could sense that I was shrouding her kitty brother with the attention he had once enjoyed and flipped her little body on purpose, emitting that darling and dramatic and droning cry to get Mommy all to herself.  And when I returned to bed, White Cat was missing.  Which made me sad.  But maybe, just maybe, after getting through this sleepy and soggy Sunday, we'll sneak another purrfect kitty cuddle tonight.