Our Daughter is a Kitten

She was already purring the first day we met her. It’s not a constant thing. It comes and goes. The doctor said that her mother was a Siamese. That's why she has Asian features, though she didn’t understand how Jem’s eyes came to be brown instead of blue. Or at least that’s what it sounded like in Russian.

The translator explained that Jem has had an ongoing respiratory condition since she arrived at the Baby House. She had a bout of pneumonia at about two months of age. And we’d been told that the Kazakh doctors tend to give children just enough medication to quell their symptoms, but not quite enough to eradicate their illness. Hence, purring.

It may be sick of us to find her sickness so adorable, but we do. We can’t help it. You should see her cough. Her tiny mouth opens to an O and the cup of her tongue darts out--fleshy little spoonful of bacteria. It makes us laugh every time. Who could design such a cough? How did such a chime of sound come to be?

A word about mucous—don’t read this if you’re squeamish. It comes in many forms. Sometimes there’s a dried little booger that flashes in and out of her nostril as she breathes. Other times, there’s a smooth covering of grout (dried breakfast cereal) sealing most of her nose shut. But this past week, something entirely new in the world of mucous presented itself:

Mommy and Jem were sitting on the mat in the playroom. We had been banished to this location because Jem’s cold had taken a turn to fever, and the out-of-doors became off limits. We were fine with that--except that the playroom is about 90° and the windows are sealed shut. Jem was handed to us dressed like Nanook of the North in summer apparel. She had on two shirts beneath a full footied-suit, with an extra pair of socks on top.

We started to sweat. And so did she. Was it the fever or the outfit, we wondered?

We stripped her down to her diaper and a sleeveless T-shirt. She continued to sweat, her wispy hairs matting against her head. We started off the morning playing the usual games: crawl to Mr. Froggy, reach for Mr. Froggy, shake and bite wooden triangle, baby sit ups, sitties, jumpies, standies…

When this became boring, we took a little tour of the room. We spent some time in front of the mirror, trying to engage Jem in reflection games. “Who’s that pretty girl?” “Who’s that pretty girl?” But that, too, got old pretty fast.

So Mama Jane hit the mat with baby Jem, and the whining began.
Clapping practice? Whine.
Ball rolling? Whine.
Orange chewy? Whine.
Walkies? Whine.
Pacifier (Your choice, Jem, elephant or froggy)? More whining.

At this point, Jane starts to have an unsavory thought. Is it possible that this adorable little love bucket is psychologically, well, off-kilter? She’s completely unresponsive to everything.

Last ditch effort: airplane.

Jane gets on her back, grabs Mademoiselle Earhart by her sides and lifts her into the air. WOOSH. Jem’s face is blank, though her body is soaring.

Seconds later the longest trail of mucous we’ve ever seen flies out of both of her nostrils, as if some hidden, backed-up spigot suddenly opened inside her head. We've entered a B-rated horror film, in which a geyser of bodily fluids turns an innocent playroom into a slime nightmare.

Our Jemmy.

Jem’s mucous is a pair of giant translucent lassos. It’s a trapeze swinging at her knees. It’s a suspension bridge, born from her nose.

“Clean up in aisle 8!!!!” Jane yells. And Steve is there immediately, roll of toilet paper unfurling.

With the snot, clarity and relief arrive for us all. The rest of the visit is spent rubbing her head and belly and whispering soothing sounds until she falls asleep, purring like the kitten we have come to love.