Cat curiousity

So I've been catching some heat lately about the lack of details in the blog about my two feline amigos, Gribouille and Toulouse. I've reassured them I meant no disrespect, however, Toulouse is likely going to need some counselling. He is a very troubled soul. So I thought the best way to describe my under- and over-nourished compatriots is to outline a typical morning in my life.
Imagine it's around 5 a.m., so I'm probably contorted myself in some bizarre position, most often it includes my two arms or legs sticking out of the crib and my head upside down, pointing in some inexplicable direction. Otherwise I'm a happy camper, life is grand. I've got a soother stuck in my mouth, Lumpy is chilling beside me and I'm sound asleep. I've got visions of teething rings dancing in my head. So you get the picture, I'm sound asleep. It always starts the same way.

"Bang!" There is a crash in the kitchen/living room, I can never figure out which one, I hate open concepts. I shake my head, soother pops out, so now the process of me waking up has started. Five seconds later, the rattling in the far-flung room has stopped and then the sound of five nails on each of four tiny paws does its best Nascar impression and heads down the hall in top gear. A second later, a second set of paws prances down the hall -- think Olympic triple-jump and that is the sound of the pre-dawn Gribouille. Both are stopped at my door.
A minute later. "Maarrrrarrr," says Toulouse. At the best of times, Toulouse appears lost. In the morning, he's likely on his side, fending off Gribouille's latest attack. This morning call, is generally to remind everyone that he is still alive, as if we really cared at that exact instant. This is followed by Belle turning around in her kennel and flopping with a melodramatic sigh.
Now maman and papa have started to flail and have kicked Gribouille off the bed. Of course he blames Toulouse for his lot in life, so he chases the white cat down the hall. Fearing for his life, Toulouse bolts down the hardwood floors as if there is a can of open tuna laying around, hangs a serious left, bouncing down the stairs with reckless abandon. Every time his little paws touched down, it sounds like his body is in suspended animation but his four little legs are still moving.

Not to be outdone, Gribouille will now jump up onto the bed, just to be booted off. The sound of Gribouille hitting the ground with his trademark flop is like a finger print, it is one of a kind. So now he's really looking to get even, so he starts scratching doors or cats. Next thing I know, you hear, "Marrarrr," scratch, scratch, bang, vrrooom, crash, "Marrarr," hiss, swat, swat, vrrooom. Now Belle is itching to get out of her kennel, papa is "pssst-ing" at the cats and I'm fully prepared to wake up. The soother gets tossed out of my mouth, Lumpy is thrown across the crib and it only takes a few moments before maman or papa comes walking through that day.
Life is so predictable. I love cats.

Elle's foray into floor crossing

Exhibit: 1

I am crossing what is a clearly identifiable floor, in this case it is hardwood, which I say somewhat resembles the Legislative Assembly. In fact, I often cross this floor in the course of the day. Look very closely. No television cameras or pesky print reporters chasing me.


Exhibit: 2
For anyone belly-aching about the importance of sitting in a particular chair. Look, I'm sitting in a chair, I could move it across the floor if I cared. All of this could is being done independently.



Exhibit: 3
Here I am clearly indicating that I have an intention to cross the floor. And in this scenario, I have Belle with me, meaning two floor-crossers. Oh the scandal. Again, look around, I don't see a pack of political hangers-on.



Exhibit: 4
Look at me, I am now in a position where I could speak to many people to join me in crossing the floor. Perhaps these people are conspirators into a grand plot to all cross the floor at once. Or maybe they are trying to influence me with gifts to cross the floor with them. A true scandal, no?

Independent floor crossing? What's the big deal?

So the main topic of conversation around our household this weekend was the decision of a Miramichi MLA to cross the floor and sit as an Independent. Now this has raised my dander a bit. When I cross the floor independently no one holds press conferences for me. It should be stated that I cross the floor quite often. So I decided to analyze the situation a bit.
No one can argue that I am not independent, just yesterday I decided that I didn’t want to nap so I didn’t. And it didn’t stop there, independent of anyone else, I decided at swimming lessons that I wasn’t going to float on my back and I pulled papa’s chest chair until he acquiesced.
Now let’s deal with the issue of floor crossing. I’ve crossed floors – carpeted, hardwood floor, linoleum and more – and sat on a number of different chairs or surfaces. And I’ve done this all independently. And I’ve also had parties of my own and attended parties for other people. It gets mentioned on a blog, but when this guy does it, all of a sudden it is a media circus. Can someone explain to me the difference? I’m quite hurt. If this means that I need to cross the floor more often then so be it. There is no way I can be more independent. Life just seems so unfair at this point.

Visit to Grandpapa and Grandmaman's house

I have to make this quick as all the grown-ups are in the other room and I'm taking advantage of Grandmaman and Grandpapa's high-speed internet. Grandpapa has been photo happy of late and I've been the target of the majority of his pictures. I've included a few of the ones that show my good side, well, some would argue I only have good sides, but I'm more humble than that.
When I get back to Fredericton I'll blog at greater length about my weekend trip to Bouctouche. In the meantime, here are some photos.

Happy Valentine's Day

Happy Valentine’s Day to me! Happy Valentine’s Day to me! I love these holidays even though I don’t really grasp the origin or the concept behind them. All I know is this morning, I got a big hug and kiss and was asked by maman and papa if I would be their Valentine. So I said what any self-respecting one-year-old would say, “Of course, but it will cost you.”
So this morning, I decided it was completely within my rights as a Valentine to vociferously announce my comings and goings between the kitchen and playroom, bang the cabinets that I shuffled last night, tug on Belle’s fur and wake up Gribouille multiple times. It is very important for any Valentine to enthusiastically entrench their role early in the day, so no one is under any false impressions of who really is the Valentine.
I expect the evening to bring about more Valentine-related events. I barely recollect what happened last year, considering I had been home from the hospital for less than a month. Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that I probably didn’t take full advantage of being a Valentine last year so I’m really going to ratchet up my demands in 2006.

Cabinet shuffle

Papa has been really busy today and all he is talking about is this cabinet shuffle phenomenon. He was describing to me exactly what a cabinet is, well aside from the doors they have locked on me in the kitchen, and the importance of these ministers. So I've been thinking of who I would put in my cabinet and in what portfolio. So far my list looks something like this:
Supreme Ruler of the House: Me
Minister of Finance and Fishy-Faces: Maman
Minister of Baths, Communications, and Running to the store for things Maman said he should have remembered the first time: Papa
Minister for Homeland Security and under secretary for eating plastic toys that pose threats to national security: Belle
Deputy Supreme Ruler of the House, Minister for Wellness Promotion and Secretariat for Sleep: Gribouille
Minister for Counter-Jumping: Toulouse
Minister for Renovation: Grand-papa
Minister for Lullaby Singing: Grand-maman
Minister for Nascar relations: Grandma McCormick
Ministers for Long-Distance Phone Calls: Great-grandma and Great-grand-dad
Ministers for Travelling in a really big van: Grandpa and Grandma McHardie

I'm back!

So I've been hearing from the peanut gallery that some are nonplussed with my recent blogging activity. Well, to the naysayers, I'd like to point out that I'm in a very busy part of my life. Perhaps they fail to remember what it is like in the immediate aftermath of turning one. Not only do I have the constant photo sessions and play dates, I also have briefing books to read on various concepts such as, farm animals, colours and bathroom behaviour. There are also significant developmental milestones that I'm charging toward, such as walking. And let me tell you, trying to gain my balance is even more difficult than logging onto this website. All this to say is, cut me some slack. I'm blogging now.

Papa and I were at our third swimming lesson on Sunday. Notwithstanding the fact that this giant bathtub is roughly 30 degrees colder than my bathtub (and you think I'm joking), I love this 30-minute weekly refuge. Swimming is so much fun that it even makes Papa's singing voice sound, well, not as bad. I must say he has mastered, "If you're happy and you know it." Trust me, for awhile I was getting scared for him. I kept saying, "Papa, papa, this is the part where you splash your hands." Anyway, he has figured it out and we are all very happy for that.

One down side to the constant attention a one-year-old receives is that every once and awhile, all you want is to do is play and instead your parents start propping you up in different poses so they can take your picture. I for one had enough last night. They could cajole all they wanted, I did not want to look happy in my rocking chair. That said, my hair cut is kinda cute and you should have seen my new outfit.

Seriously one more photo and teddy-bunny gets it. I'm not kidding around here, I have some considerable teeth action and his ear is one serious chomp from being floppy no more. Back away slowly and put away the digital camera and everyone will come away unscathed.

Finally, a bit of time to sit on my couch and relax, away from the glare of the cameras and the pressure-cooker atmosphere of parental demands of non-stop cuteness. Sometimes all a baby wants to do is read a book. Can't anybody understand that?