Aileen Jeffries

When we moved in, our backyard was a steeply sloped showcase for weeds and bits of refuse that don’t biodegrade. To make matters worse, it abuts the grounds of the Hopewell House Hospice which are at all times beautifully landscaped. So, our yard was even shabbier by comparison. We finally tackled this problem this spring. The retaining wall and deck from our remodeling project provided a nice canvas. We brought in good dirt, gravel and some pretty but surprisingly heavy “Pennsylvania Lavender Bluestone” flagstones. Kes wheelbarrowed most of them around the house, and we teamed up on the largest to roll them back, much like our cave-dwelling distant ancestors would have done before the invention of slavery.

I was arranging the flagstones into a pleasant seating area when I crushed my right index finger between two mammoth slabs. It promptly swelled up and turned an angry aubergine hue I don’t typically associate with living tissue.

That was the first assault on my right hand, the second coming a few days later in the form of a most-likely-not-rabid stray cat. We’ve named her Macy and she’s the mom of both of our cats. We feed her but could hardly call her our own. Bit by bit, Kes gained her trust and lured her into our house. Our plan was to take her into the vet and relieve her of the reproductive system she’s used so extensively up to this point. That meant catching her and stuffing her in a cat carrier. I should say in my defense that Macy is a shy, petite kitty – meek even. She was doing her best to make herself as small as possible, curled up near the printer in Kes’s office. I had the thought that I could just swiftly grab her and slide her little body into the carrier which in retrospect was one of the dumber ideas I’ve had. There were so many limbs, not a one of them actually going into the door of the carrier. I had to let go when she turned her sweet, small face toward me and delivered a powerful bite to my right hand.

Consulting the Internet as I do on all matters health-related, I discovered that cat bites almost invariably lead to rabies or death by bacterial infection. Best case scenario: amputation. Nervous, I headed into urgent care. The Internet turned out to be half right; almost all cat bites become infected due to the teeming village of evil bacteria that live in any cat’s mouth. But, getting rabies is actually quite rare. Especially since she had been hanging around our house for weeks looking perfectly healthy, there was little concern. So, one course of broad-spectrum antibiotics later and I’m good as new.

I have a great ambivalence toward all things craft. On the one hand, Martha Stewart is personal idol of mine and one of my life goals is to become the family matriarch. I genuinely enjoy the “feminine arts” of cooking, sewing, decorating and gardening. A wave of pleasure washes over me when I get something “just so” – like when I found the perfect brocade duvet cover for the antique iron bedframe we have in the guest bedroom.

On the other hand, the craft store Michaels gives me the creeps. The overwhelming potpourri smell, the aisles of fake flowers, the bedazzling and scrap booking paraphernalia. The 20 minutes spent waiting in line at the framing counter behind an overly tanned, Juicy Couture sweatpants wearing, fake nails sporting trophy wife framing poster-sized portraits of her pudgy and sullen future-criminal children. The fear that perhaps I am one of them; that any moment now I’ll don a “kittens with balls of yarn” holiday sweater and get out my glue gun and just give up.

Tangentially, there’s a whole field of popular art that seems to accompany the dark side of crafting. Thomas Kinkade and Anne Geddes come to mind here. Once, I had a dream about photographing in the style of Anne Geddes except instead of babies with cabbage leaves on their heads, my subject matter was baby animals nestled in piles of foods made from the same animal. Fluffy little chicks in a nest of scrambled eggs. Piglets positioned in bacon bouquets.

Part of my crafting trepidation comes from my naturally snobbish nature. I am a designer. I have a degree in Design. I’m really good at differentiating colors. So when I craft, it’s art, right?

Except Sunday’s project involved the cheesy crafting trifecta: felt, a kitten motif and a trip to loathsome JoAnn’s Fabrics, emporium of disaffected employees, ADA violations and unreasonably long lines. I fully embraced my inner kindergarten teacher and I emerged satisfied with the result. Kea now has a Christmas stocking, featuring our kitten, Neiman. It matches Kes’ squirrel stocking and my chick-a-dee.

Now, where did I put that glue gun?

For six innocent months, our baby, Kea, was unaware of her feline housemates. Saks would curl up next to her on the sofa and Kea would treat him like any other furry warm blanket.

Unfortunately for our cats, Kea is starting to take more notice of her surroundings, just as she has begun her quest for mobility. She explores her world largely through her mouth – if she can grab it, it goes in the mouth. Whole catalogs are reduced to paper mush in mere minutes.

The greatest prize would be a cat – to grab, to ride, to fit as much as possible into her gaping maw. Our cats are not social creatures. They do not bear gladly the clumsy and the loud. When Kea smacks her fists against the floor, shrieks her primal cat-hunting call and lunges for one of them, they take off. This only spurs her desire to dominate them further.

Until this morning, I assumed the cats realized they had the upper hand, with their competency at walking and jumping to high, protected places. This was before we discovered what Nieman had done to Kea’s favorite pacifier. Evidently, he has some suppressed feelings about being stalked daily by our baby.

It rarely gets unbearably hot in Portland, but this past weekend was the exception. After several 90 and 100 degree days, our house was sweltering Saturday night. So, I camped out with Kea on the back deck, cool breezes coming in around midnight and lulling us to sleep. It was a strange night; sky full of lightening but no rain.

Around 2:00 am I heard some disturbing noises from under the chestnut tree. Primal snorts and huffs and the pathetic chirps of a bird or small rodent meeting its untimely end. I peered over the edge of the deck to catch a glimpse of the interloper – a coyote. I only saw one but I think there were at least two by the sound of it.

We don’t exactly live in the country, so the appearance of wild animal took me by surprise, as did its boldness. Bewildered by what felt like a bad dream, I reached for Kea, prepared to defend her tooth and nail, or more realistically, with an outburst of nonsensical expletives of increasing volume.

So, that is how I came to be standing on my deck in my pajamas in the middle of the night in a lightening storm, yelling out into the darkness. Next time I see a crazy person walking down the street talking to himself, I’ll try to be sympathetic. He’d probably have a perfectly reasonable explanation for his behavior, too.

I worry sometimes what motherhood will reduce me to. Will I shut out the world and think only of feeding schedules and matching onesies to tiny little socks? Will night after night of 4 or 5 hours of sleep cause me to abandon all intellectual pursuits?

Then Kes sends me this and I find that I really don’t care if my brain is reduced to oxytocin-sodden mush. Nom, nom, nom. Toes.