I think that cats all have different names (I was just reading about this on another thread as well). They have the name we give them, their true cat name, and their human name. When I apply this to Otis, I get "Waker of Babies" for the true name and "little sh*t" for the human name.

We were all deathly ill for a two week period a little while ago. As usual, my husband was away during the peak of illness as I toted the kids to Emergency in the middle of the night *three* times as well as to their regular doc for the same number of times. I had my signature brand of laryngitis which causes my throat to swell up so much that I can barely breathe and a very nasty cold. Both kids were up just about every hour so I hadn't slept forever. Fred had picked up a cold on his business trip.

Fred came home: "Oh, my G*d, I think I'm going to die. Poor me. Poor me. Poor me", ad nauseam. After a few hours of this I said: "Just a gentle reminder dear husband, we all feel this way so if you could keep it to yourself...". It's physically impossible for a sick man to keep it to himself, I should have realized.

So, after being up all night with the kids and trying to go for a nap myself, I find that Fred has woken the baby by being too noisy and then gone to bed himself. I couldn't wake him up. I considered making it permanent but thought the kids might need a father. Digging very very deeply, I stuck baby Sam in the stroller and took him out for a walk, no small feat since my throat kept closing up. He finally fell asleep, I got home and sat in the back with a magazine, thinking I'd have a little special quiet time if I couldn't sleep. No such luck. THAT LITTLE SH*T, aka, Waker of Babies, spied the stroller and decided that it was custom built for him. Up under the blanket and Wham-mo - right on top of the baby - a foot on his tummy and another on his throat. The baby wakes up screaming at the top of his lungs. Typical Otis. I am now very angry at both my husband and Otis.

Oh well, I'm a big person, I think, I'll just entertain poor sick little Sammy and give Fred some time to sleep and feel better. A couple of hours tick by. Fred gets up. I kid you not, his first words "Oh my G*d, I feel like hell, poor me, poor me, poor me...". I almost had a heart attack. I decided his true name was "Big Baby". Mine? "Big Martyr" ... I have to work on this one.

Copyright © Susan Mawdsley
April 15, 2001