Rearrangements

Renate and I have reconfigured our apartment at least thirty times since moving in. Why? Because someday one undoubtedly looks back and says, I wish I’d spent equal amounts of time in the dining and living rooms.

Last fall we retooled our dining room into a sitting room. Two leather chairs face the television, with a bookshelf standing nearby in case the power should go out and we need either a) entertainment, or b) fuel.

The rearrangement was a smashing success. We now spend a good portion of our evenings on those leather chairs, either engrossed in our laptops (yes, we have become those people) or watching the tube (we’ve always been those people).

We’re usually enjoying a quiet moment in these chairs when the cat wakes from a nap and comes shooting into the room, squawking as if her tail is on fire, just to let us know that she IS HERE and she IS NOT HAPPY ABOUT SOMETHING.

Now that the guest room has morphed into a nursery, the cat largely avoids it. I think she’s protesting the loss of her favorite hiding spot beneath the guest bed, or perhaps ignoring the impending reshuffling of the pecking order. (Maybe I’m alone in that.)

But then earlier this afternoon she gingerly picked her way about the room, sniffing the freshly killed rug and the drawer beneath the crib, which holds burp cloths galore, a sound machine that mimics the womb, swaddling blankets, and roughly one-third of Target’s nursery department.

I wonder how she’ll get on with the newest Myler. She once sniffed around the base of a car seat that carried a sleeping infant, but I don’t think she knew what was inside. She tolerates toddlers until they get excited, at which point she hides and we steer the child toward toys that don’t have fangs.

These days she routinely sets up shop on top of Renate’s belly for a snooze. I like to think she’s aware of the little one in there, and hopefully not trying to establish dominance from the get-go.

I can picture her reaction when we return from the hospital: the ears will go up and the eyes will widen. Upon hearing the first squawk from beneath the swaddling blankets she will slink off to hide, waiting for the right moment to remind us that she IS HERE and she IS NOT HAPPY ABOUT SOMETHING (IN PARTICULAR).