Tell a new story

When our son Theo was a year old, "kitty" had been his one and only word for months. All he wanted was to glimpse of one of our cats, sneak a quick stroke of fur. But nothing doing. The cats made themselves invisible when Theo was awake. A lurching, shrieking munchkin chanting "kitty" clearly wasn't their cup of milk.

So we did what any reasonable family with two dogs, two cats and an infant son would do: we adopted a kitten. Our theory was that a kitten growing up in the company of a baby wouldn't  know to be afraid. And we wanted Theo to have the sidekick he yearned for. In this one, blessed instance amidst the endless unknowns and mistakes of new parenthood, our theory proved spot-on.

Snow Pea came to us through a friend of a friend. She had been found abandoned in a tree and needed a home. The deal was sealed instantly: the kitten loved Theo, and Theo loved the kitten. She supervised his baths, helping to play with toys and bubbles. She shared my lap in his rocking chair at story time, she slept in his crib when it was unoccupied, and would spoon Theo on the changing table to ease the diaper transitions. This kitten was clearly one of the most confident, relaxed and loving beings I'd ever come into contact with. She was assured of her right to be the center of all attention; and every being in the house respected her tiny, feline authority. We fell head-over-paws in love with her. 

Our grown cats had a different opinion. Valentino, who had always considered himself the baby/prince of the family had been mightily insulted when a human baby showed up on the scene. The final insult of a new, feline youngster in the mix was just too much for his ego to handle. Any time Snow Pea entered a room or a lap, Valentino exited it. A (literal) pissing match began on our bed, on the high-status side where my husband sleeps. If the bedroom door was left open for even a minute, we'd spend the next few days laundering bedding. Worry about Valentino's hardship clouded my delight. And so it went from October to April.

Then, last night, something new happened. For the first time since Snow Pea came home, Valentino snuggled up with me as I was reading in bed -- he'd been avoiding our bedroom in protest, except to mark it. When SP promptly appeared to join us, Valentino didn't leave in a huff. Instead, he patiently accommodated her dramatic head-butts and tail-hugging, and even allowed her to settle down between the two of us. The clincher was Valentino grooming Snow Pea's head.

It occurred to me in that moment that what had shifted for Valentino was his story -- and Snow Pea's role in it. Whatever he believed last week about Snow Pea stealing his thunder, his baby-status, his prime real estate on the bed had suddenly yielded to the revelation that this kitty was kind of nice, fun to lick, pretty ok to snuggle up with.

In my experience, six months is a pretty quick turnaround for a cat to rewrite his turf war story. The question is, how quickly are we humans willing to rewrite ours?

When we remember that how we relate to our circumstances is truly a choice, to be managed with great care, we have far more range in navigating the joys and challenges of our lives. When life takes turns we weren't prepared for, what kind of stories are we going to tell?  What is the gain to be dusted off and polished up after the loss settles in? Do you choose to see the enemy taking your special couch cushion, or find the friend who might just make the cushion a cozier place to be?

If you're telling a story that's keeping you unhappy or uninspired or at odds with someone important to you, maybe it's time to start telling a new story.

Comments

[Kris B]

I know that it's time. Why is it so hard? Maybe remember this cat will make it a little easier.

[Kris B]

I know that it's time. Why is it so hard? Maybe remembering this cat will make it a little easier.

[Sage Cohen]

You can do it! You can do it!