Metal Meredith

It wasn’t because the red was fading. It wasn’t because I needed to do some root touch ups. Nope, it was because each time I looked in the mirror, I saw another gray hair.

*before dye job*

I am not opposed to gray hair, I kind of like it. It was cool to find the first 5 or so. It is neat to part my hair and see flecks of silver shining back. But when they started to glisten in the sun, when I could see them without trying, when I knew one application of color would rid them for a little while longer, I just couldn’t help myself.

On Friday, I will turn 35. I am not sad, I am not scared, I am not depressed. I am simply turning 35. I would say middle age, but I fully intend to make it past 80. Let’s talk middle age when I am 40, okay?

As I was carrying Henry into the kitchen this morning, I was struck by how strange it feels to be a mother, much less a mother of two. When I am holding one and blurting out answers to the other’s questions about if rocks come from trees or if flowers are better than stars, I can hardly believe that this is my life. When I am changing my clothes for the second time to a shirt without crumbs and stains ground into the fibers, I am sure that this is a cruel joke.

I am sure that sometimes I have popped into someone else’s life from the much cooler host body that is my real home. I am almost positive that I work in Seattle booking bands into the coolest venues, living on Mercer Island in one of those amazing contemporary houses from Dwell Magazine.

But then I find a drawing of Phil and Henry in chicken suits.

Or I hear a faint baby giggle and turn to see a toothy grin.

I might not be the coolest or the prettiest or the most successful. I might not be ecstatic about the place I stand at this very moment. But for right now I am here.

I am a mom. I am a wife. I am going to be 35 and I am just getting started.

On September 28th (mark the date, please), I will turn 35 years old. This past March, my cat turned 18. She has been with me over half my life. Only my family has known me longer. In reality, she is my family.

My sister ‘found her’ under a police car in the pouring rain. My sister, who has a knack for finding helpless animals in peril, found her by initially chasing her under the car and then clamoring under there herself to drag the poor kitten out. When I came home that day, there was a teeny black and white kitten hiding under the chair. After living in a household of dogs for so long, I was overjoyed to see her tiny kitty face.

We were fast friends. She would follow me from room to room, sleep in the bathroom sink and sit on the counter and play in the drips while I brushed my teeth. She spent her evenings outdoors and would somehow just know when I was coming home, tearing from across the street as my car turned the corner. We would play a game of tag until I coaxed her inside, where we would lay on the floor and play ‘kill Meredith’s hands”. This, of course, resulted on horribly torn up skin. But it was worth it.

I moved from home to an apartment, where I did a horrible thing and brought another cat home. Poor Kee Wee never liked Griffon. They fought, she growled, he tormented. We moved again and in came Kitcha. She was just a nuisance but KeeWee didn’t like to share me with anyone at all. She had razor sharp claws that she was not afraid to use in times of anger. She has always been bitchy, but she was always faithful to me.

Phil came along and we moved into our first house. All 3 cats staked out their territory and never met except at the food and water bowls. She was finally OK with her living arrangement. Then came Vivienne. She took it quite well. Didn’t much like the crying but would jump on the arm of the rocking chair and purr at me while I fed Vivienne. I would pet her while I held Vivienne and she seemed to forgive me for the loud addition to the house.

She outlived Griffon, who died in 2004. Then Kitcha, who died one year later in 2005. We adopted Friedrich and Liesl in 2006, to amuse Vivienne and allow KeeWee some quiet time without the hyper hands of a 2 year old all over her.

If you now me well enough to read my blog, you know that these tributes only come one time. And yes, KeeWee’s one time was at noon today. I woke up to her in pretty bad shape. After all, she was 18 years old. All I asked of the vet was to attempt to alleviate any guilt I felt about making the decision. So it was made. She was only 5 pounds and skin and bones. Although her purr was strong, the rest of her was not. It was quick, she was peaceful. It was just her time to go. As sad as it is, she was with me for so long that I had prepared myself for years for this day. I am feeling relief that she isn’t suffering, that I don’t have to wonder if she is in pain anymore.

I just finished reading Rupert Everett’s Autobiography. In it, he describes the loss of his dog, Mo. I cried when I read it, maybe sensing this day to come.

“It’s a strange and extraordinary thing, life with an animal. When one comes into your life, it is so young, so full or energy, and you are old by comparison. You take on the roll of the father. But between then and his death there is a turning of the tables. Soon you become brothers. As he gets older, you become younger, so that by the end he is a grandfather and you are a thoughtless child. In denial of his great age, you force him to do things, to keep going, and he looks at you with the eyes of an elder, sitting in the shade of the village oak.”

My first baby, my best girlfriend, my old lady kitty.

Hallelujah!

Phil and I have had the same queen sized bed for about 7 years now. Shortly before Henry was born, we were in bed one Sunday morning when Vivienne climbed in and proceeded to take up 50% of the space. We then realized that we would need to upgrade in order to fit 4 of us on those lazy Sunday mornings.

Before:

Our old bed became like a giant, crooked canoe. Phil, who snoring sometimes can sound like road repair, sleeps on the side and I sleep right next to him so he doesn’t roll over. Our poor bed paid the price for that. We found a super new bed frame and mattress on Craigslist for cheap cheap cheap!!

It only took us 30 minutes to set up the bed. However, it took us about an hour to get the mattress up the stairs. When it landed on the bed frame, we both collapsed and ‘ooohed’ and ‘ahhhhed’ at the comfort. I brought out my super, new, fancy sheets and my fluffier than fluffy new duvet and we slept like logs.

New Bed:

Last night, about 4am, nature called. When I was coming back into the room, I slammed my little toe into the corner of the bed frame at full force. I cussed, hopped a few times and collapsed into bed. I groaned, rolled back and forth and tried my best to ignore the throbbing. Except I noticed that my foot was wet. Super.

I hobbled into the bathroom where I bled all over the rug and floor. I grabbed a wash cloth and hopped back into the bedroom where I had to wake a dead-to-the-world Phil and ask him to dress my wounds. My husband is wonderful in the fact that there was not one moan, heavy sigh or bitchy comment to me waking him up at 4am. It felt like I had hit my toe with a hammer. But in reality, I only split my toenail about 3/4 of the way down.

Seriously, I love the bed to death. Why does it have to try and kill me? Phil suggested those lights found on airplane isles to help us see where the bed is. I think I need to wear steel toed shoes back and forth to the bathroom from now on.