Yeah, so today was not a banner day in the Little E household, thanks to one curious almost-toddler and one cranky old lady kitty.
It started off like any other Saturday--happy little waking up noises from Ethan, followed by a fabulous trip to Starbucks to flirt with everyone in sight (Ethan, not me--my flirting days are long over. Have you seen the size of my ass lately? I can't, in good conscience, flirt while toting that thing around). I had my cinnamon dolce latte and Husband had his tall no-foam and Ethan ate his madeliene cookie. Then we returned home, to the scene of the impending catastrophe.
See--here's my dilemma and the root cause of the aforementioned impending catastrophe. Baby gates are up. Our home is fairly Ethan-proofed, so I tend not to follow him from room to room, helicopter style. Also, considering we live in a shoebox, I can hear just about every breath Ethan takes regarldless of where he is in the house. So I tend to let him roam at will, chasing balls and throwing toys and...ooops, tormenting kitties.
Up to this point, Abby & Penny have been saint-like patient with this child. He loves to squeal, "Kitty!" and try to love on them (which is generally in the form of a full-force swat). He seems confused when they run away from him. Go figure, little man, cats aren't so much with the face smacking and whisker pulling.
Today, apparently Penny kitty had had enough. While Ethan was off exploring the kitchen, husband and I relaxed a bit in the livingroom--clearly mistake #1. There was general baby-generated noise from around the corner; Farmer Tad on the fridge was telling us what pigs sound like and all that good stuff.
Next thing I know, I hear a quiet whimper. Odd. Ethan is not a whimperer. If it's worth complaining about, it's worth a scream, damn it. No fear, mama! Before I can get off my fat ass and into the kitch, the whimper has turned into full on panic scream. Mommy pulse starts racing. It is not a good sound.
I turn the corner to see my son and cat on the floor, facing each other, my cat's claw IN. MY. SON'S. FOREHEAD. Yes. You read that right. In his forehead. In the skin. Stuck. She swatted him and got her claw stuck in his skin. It was not a pretty sight. I don't know what he did to her (that would be because I was relaxing like a delinquent in the other room), but she had clearly had enough.
There was much screaming (Ethan & me) and cursing (me) and trying as gently as possible to extricate the cat's claw from my son's head (me) and throwing the cat down the stairs, also as gently as possible (me) and crying (Ethan & me).
There was some bleeding. There was some puffing up of skin. We slathered neosporin on his forehead and did some serious cuddling. The crying stopped and he commenced with the eye-rubbies that mean a nap is not far behind. Now, from the quiet above, I can tell he is sleeping soundly, perhaps dreaming of his revenge on the kitty.
I suppose I should have known this confrontation was inevitable. How could I miss the "just you wait" in this picture?