Feline concerns

My parents have three cats. Molly and Monty, who are a couple of years old, and a tortoiseshell they have had since I was a teenager. I remember when Dad brought her home - it was a surprise, particularly as he is not that fond of cats generally. We already had Zoom, my beautiful black girl, and maybe Tiger or Sparkie had not long passed away. We called the tortoishell Gina because we liked the barmaid in BBC's "Heartbeat". DD calls her "Gines", which is our "pet" name for her.

Molly and Monty seem huge now, and a little strange-looking since I adopted a pair of tabby kittens a couple of months ago. I would like to say that these kittens are the first cats I've had since leaving home, but I can't. Mr Bojangles was a dear little guy who my husband brought home for me shortly after we moved in together even though, like my Dad, he is not particularly fond of cats. I didn't have him neutered and should have. I didn't have enough time to play with him and cuddle him and pat him and should have made the time. When I surrendered him to the RSPCA I took all his things with him, including the washing basket with it's pillow that he slept in in the laundry, and bawled the whole time. It wasn't his fault but he copped the consequences. What were the chances that they would find him a home, really? They must have put him down. So I realised these two full time professional, childless people were not the right people to "own" a cat, and decided I wouldn't commit myself to it again until I had children to play with them and cuddle them and pat them. Sorry, Mr Bojangles.

Peter Pan and Wendy are happy little kittens now they have settled in and can run around outside. When they come inside they want food and cuddles. DD is always happy to provide cuddles and Wendy is pretty good at dodging them, whereas Peter is so gentle and friendly that he instantly starts purring even when a toddler is holding him awkwardly across the middle and patting his fur in the wrong direction. They usually curl up together to sleep at night, which I love to see, and it's delightful to watch them chase each other around the garden, bouncing after butterflies or bees or moths. They are very cheeky and each will take the opportunity to line the other up just when they are trying to wee, then pounce on them before they are finished. They rush out to the car when I come home, and watch from the outside of the kitchen windowsill while I prepare dinner.

Gina wont make it to the end of the week. I held her last night and she is skin and bones. She laid on the grass letting mosquitoes land on her nose. I was afraid I would hurt her when I cuddled her and heard her joints crack, but she was purring. I asked her to say hello to Zoom for me.

Shoes

There’s some saying about walking a mile in someone else’s shoes which is irrelevant really because this is mainly about my own shoes. My daughter’s also, but there’s no way I could squeeze into them. Maybe if your own shoes are old enough, though, you are ultimately walking in someone else’s. How old would they have to be?

Until Saturday morning, I had purchased three pairs of shoes in the last eight years: a pair of not-so serious runners (compared to my old standards); a pair of dressy shoes that I will wear if I have to but preferably not for more than five minutes; and a pair of shoes which attach to my bike pedals (not sure what these are called by serious cyclists and don’t really care). My “good black shoes” are worn through on the sole and give absolutely no support but look okay from head height. I think. My “street shoes” (by this I mean a comfortable pair to walk in that you can wear with jeans) were bought in Auckland eight years ago and I thought they were kind of cool for a while because they are the only thing I have ever bought from a strip of overpriced shops in an exclusive suburb of a foreign city. They too give absolutely no support.

So my “everyday” shoes - the two pairs that I relied on to wear with my jeans and which looked sort of reasonable after eight-plus years of being smashed up - gave me no support. I had a vague sense that when I put them on they would make me feel a little on the crappy side. The first time I noticed this I told my husband and suggested that if he ever thought I was in a foul mood he might want to check what shoes I was wearing. I meant it in a light-hearted sort of way and he just seemed irritated at having to add yet another thing to the list of things that might “put me” in a bad mood. I now realise that should have replaced them long before then.

You see, on Saturday morning, we had planned to go shoe-shopping for our daughter. I sympathised with her squeezing into uncomfortable shoes and thought she deserved a decent pair for all her running around as a little girl learning to be a big girl. I’m not sure when it struck me – was it something my husband said? – that maybe I could do with some sympathy and a new pair of shoes myself. However the decision came about, it was a big deal because I spend my money on things for the garden and things for making other things that I have dreamed up and I buy my clothes from op shops. Sometimes I buy a book. Sometimes the book is brand new...

Earlier in the week, we had been to a camping shop (so I could drool over tents and cleverly designed cupboards that pack down flat) and saw some shoes at half price. We went back on Saturday morning and I immediately found two pairs of shoes I liked, bought them, and wore one pair out of the shop. I didn’t take them off all day, when I usually can’t wait to whip my shoes off the moment I step inside the house. The pedals in my car seemed more responsive because my shoes had less give in them. I felt taller and stronger and straighter. My body felt right in spite of my rotten old cold. The next day – yesterday – was the same. I took them off for a long car trip but that was it. Wore them all day, did stacks of walking – toddler on hip or not – and felt strong. I felt like the woman who used to be able to hike with a pack up and down big hills and not have to rest as often as (nearly) everyone else I was with, mostly men.

I now have a good, supportive pair of shoes that I can wear every day if I want. What a difference it makes! That light-hearted comment to my husband years ago should not have been so flippantly made. The sense of my feet being firmly supported, of the soles making good contact with the ground and my body being better-aligned: these things give me an awareness of my posture and have reminded me of how strong and capable my body is. And of course, the fact of my feet being better supported and my body being better aligned means I have less sensory irritations to distract me from the delightful world around me...

My daughter joined in her second running race on Saturday afternoon, wearing her new shoes (which look remarkably similar to mine). When the little people had finished their run, the big people took off in handicapped stages to do two laps through the bush inside an ancient volcanic crater and she cheered “Go Daddy, Go!” from the picnic rug every time he ran past. Me - strong, capable, better-aligned and comfortably arranged on the rug in my new shoes - I was able to notice the grass, the insects, the sunshine, the fallen sticks and branches, the warmth and energy of the people around me.

Three things bother me about all of this:
1. If you have to get everything "right" with your body - good sleep, physical comfort, lack of sensory irritation - in order to notice the beauty around you then you are probably a miserable git. I have to learn instead to notice when these things are obstructing my view and find a way to look past them.
2. Perhaps one shouldn't walk in someone else's shoes, but should instead pay attention to the "shoes" that saying refers to and consider whether the person could do with some understanding or a metaphorical foot-rub. Also, when I was cleaning DD's old but treasured first shoes to put away in the cupboard on Saturday afternoon, she said "Baby not want your white shoes". I hadn't told her that this was my plan but she had cottoned on. Perhaps it is not fair for this new little one to learn to walk in someone else's shoes before they have their own... And if your shoes are no longer your own but belong to your shadow, perhaps you should ditch them.
3. If I want to blog more often, I'm going to have to write much shorter pieces. Or find a babysitter.