The Elvis and Sassy Show-off

My adopted boys both turned two years old this month and the term “terrible twos” has already proven aptly decreed. The period has just begun and I suspect my confidence that it won’t be as bad as everyone portrays it to be will quickly bring me to rational acceptance. As they have become more inquisitive, I’ve had to either put items out of reach or remove them entirely. Although no harm has been done, it was wise of me to view candles as a possible tragedy in the making and a lesson to be learned at another time.

Their contrasting features actually make each of them more endearing. As one has jet-black hair and will grow to be of a small, slim frame, my other boy is blond and full-bodied and may have the potential of being overweight, so I’ll have to maintain a watchful diet and promote exercise through the years. It’s a bit reassuring when I see him being playful and how responsive he is to rolling one of the toys on the carpet. The other guy is content to watch and show facial expressions of interest or confusion.

They’ve gotten along so well with each other from the beginning but there’s a hint of jealousy from time to time. Neither of them is aware of, nor comprehends, my words when I tell each of them he’s my favorite, always supplemental the statement with assurance “except for the other”.

They have learned the word “no” very well and I’ve taken great care to make it a positive learning experience by saying it in a firm, low tone. I have no problem repeating it a few times, if necessary, but an occasional loud, firm voice is used only to gain their attention if they are at risk of harming themselves. They fear nothing in the house, including brooms and the vacuum cleaner; I’ve never found it necessary to go to such extremes.

My personal possessions are of little concern; my boys’ safety is always first and foremost.

They love to be nurtured, almost demanding to be held to the point where it may become a concern of dependency, not just for them but for myself as well. As long as I’m aware of that possibility and take corrective action if warranted, they should become independent and confident as they grow. They will always be assured that they can count on me to put their interests and well being above my own.

One of the most treasured times are in the morning as one or the other of my boys will get my attention to be fed. There are days when it’s untimely but I’m never in doubt of waking up at a more than respectable hour. As their day begins, so does mine. The only annoying period in the morning is when they decide to play with my newspaper. True, I don’t want them to get ink print on themselves, but it’s a major misdemeanor when either of my boys rips my reading material. Why does it seem that I’m the one to adjust to them? I was here first!

They never fight, or so I thought for the longest of time. Occasionally I would hear a thump somewhere in the house but by the time I checked it out they were calmly lying on the floor. At other times I’d find a vase knocked over on the floor but just figured one or the other, or both, were playing. It was by chance I saw their bodies entangled, roughing each other up, tossing and turning, feigning injury or exposing themselves in a vulnerable position. They were fighting! But not a sound came from either’s mouths. There was total silence as they tried to outdo the other. I chuckle with delight every time I see them at play-fighting. It happens quite often and they often look to make sure I’m aware of their entertaining antics. Precious.

As Auntie says, “You don’t own them; they own you.” There is surely some truth to the statement but they’re under my protection, not possession.

As you can imagine, these little guys mean the world to me. They keep me on my toes, give me a sense of tranquility and make me appreciate yet another wonder of nature in life. They won’t be with me forever and, although I’m in my mid-50s, I’m prepared as much as possible to lose them before my own life comes to an end. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Elvis, named after The King, is Burmese and the smaller of the two. Sassy, so aptly named within moments of being in my life, is Siamese. Cats and other pets are meant to have one parent figure. I’ve adjusted my diet and corrected some vices to do all I can to outlive them. It’s up to me to accept their inevitable future, to understand grief, shed tears and carry on through life, knowing I have done all I could to provide a safe, secure and healthy environment for all three of us.

They are daddy’s boys through and through. We belong to a Mutual Admiration Society of three. Elvis, Sassy and me.

PARCEL POST 2008 @ www.parcelpost08.blogspot.com A New Year. A New Blog.