College boy Reeve came home last night for a short visit (has a voice competition in Albuquerque today), ostensibly to see us, but I’m guessing the fact that we have two-week-old kittens here didn’t hurt.
It’s wonderful to see him, or, more accurately, to hug him. In this day and age of Skype and email and Facebook and cell phones, we’re usually in pretty close touch. But electronic communication, though immediate, and definitely a good thing, is no substitute for everyday interaction, lovely moments of low-key hangout time, and the very real physical presence of our child.
So why do they call it being in touch? . . .
Since Reeve’s room has been converted into the nursery (When mama cat Twombly, gave birth under his bed—a convenient choice, since, other than the bathroom, Reeve’s room is the only one in the house with a door—we sealed the room off to keep the other feline residents out until the kittens are bigger.), Reeve is sleeping on the fold-out futon couch in the main room where Tim and I sleep, on another fold-out futon couch. (There’s just 10 feet and a book case between the two couches, so it occurs to me this is kind of like a grownup variation on cosleeping.)
Anyway, this morning, I awoke to hear Brutus (our 2-year-old tabby), meowing adamantly / persistenly, and Reeve mumbling, “Brutus. No.” and “Don’t poke me!” and then, “What is it, boy? What’s that? . . . Someone’s stuck in a well!? . . .”
You can’t get that on Facebook.
Top photo: the spare bed/couch/futon in our front room.
Above: Can’t believe I have now actually referenced Lassie twice in this blog . . .