Kitty-Child Not Just for Halloween

I’m now the mother of a—well, it’s hard to explain. It seems my three-year-old has turned into a kitty. She’s not wearing a costume; she’s just turned into an on-the-floor, I’m-not-going-to-speak-to-you-unless-it’s-in-kitty-talk, kitty.
This happened about a week ago when her baby brother learned how to walk and strut his stuff. It’s not that she minds her baby brother, it’s that he’s now getting a lot of attention. So she stopped walking and began crawling on her hands and knees. She’s turned into a kitty 24/7.
It was fun for the first couple of days, but having my daughter’s hands on the floor in public grosses me out. And trying to communicate with her, has become down-right annoying. It goes something like this.
“Kristie,” I say, “do you want orange juice or milk for lunch?”
“Me-mow,” she says. Except it’s not a “mow” sound as in “mow the lawn.” It’s “mao,” as in rhyming the second syllable of “me-ow.”
“Me-mow, wants me-mow milk, Mommy,” she says in a high-pitched mew.
When we stand in line at the grocery store, the cashier leans over the counter and watches as I try to ignore Kristie as she winds around my legs, purring and meowing.
“Oh, my gosh!” the clerk gushes. “That’s got to be the cutest thing I’ve seen in years.” She coos to my darling daughter, “Hi, kitty!”
“Me-mow!” Kristie answers happily. You might say she has a Cheshire cat grin.
Anytime I run errands, I try to have firm talks with my kitty-person. “I will not let you crawl from the car into the drug store,” I say sternly. “This kitty is going to have to walk on two feet, and keep up with me.”
It works until we reach the automatic doors of the wherever I’m going. Then she’s back on all fours, to my impatience and the delight of almost everyone we pass.
“Me-mow, Mommy. Can me-mow have some me-mow gum?”
“Cats can’t chew gum,” I reply, as I plop my toddler son into the shopping cart. I hope the kitty will keep up.
“Purrrr-please? Me-mow. Me-can chew gum. Me-mow.”
I don’t buy the gum and although I was expecting some hissing, it doesn’t faze her. My playful kitten bounces along after me.
Two weeks into the feline phase as I’m in a clothing store, an older woman walks past us briskly. Kristie uses the opportunity to add yet another member to her kitty-cat fan-club. She meows, “Me-mow, love you, Mommy.” Reaching up with her paw-hand, she taps my thigh as she rubs her head against my knee.
The grandmotherly woman spins in place, eyes riveted to my daughter. Kristie smiles at her and then, meows. The woman gasps, and with a starry-eyed gaze says to me, “She’s adorable.”
I reply, “I’m not as crazy about this stage as I was a couple of weeks ago.” I’m thinking about how Kristie won't sleep in her bed. Instead she sleeps in a blanket nest on the floor. Her “kitty basket.”
I glance down at Kristie who is now licking the back of her paw-hand, as if cleaning herself the way any pampered kitty would.
“Oh, honey,” the woman counsels me, “treasure these moments. They pass all too quickly.”
I will, I think. Just as soon as I get Kristie back on two feet and out from underneath the clothing rack.
The next morning Kristie wants to eat breakfast on the floor. Like our cat. And she doesn’t want oatmeal for breakfast.
“Kitties, don’t me-mow, eat me-mow oatmeal,” she mews.
My husband says, “You have to admit. She is cute.”
Of course she’s cute, but I wonder when sweet daughter will return.
“Look at the bright side,” he says, chuckling. “She’s not a cat burglar.”
I wonder if I’m being a sourpuss. Standing there, I stew for a minute, then throw up my hands in surrender. Reaching into the cupboard, I grab a box of cereal—a brand that has similar shaped pieces to the cat food I buy in ten pound bags. Indulgently I pour a bowl of cereal, add milk and place it carefully on the floor.
With a sigh I watch my kitty-child pounce on her breakfast and lap it up.