Cats are Jerks

The thing about cats is that you could have thirty of them and never end up with two that were alike. They are all unique little butterflies with personalities and opinions and a general ability to be total and complete jerks.

Like this one.

It's not just that she thinks my kitchen counters are her personal resting ground, it's that she does it right next to the water bottle I spray her with when I catch her there. She could teach the honey badger a thing or two about how to not care.

Kiara is a jerk. A fluffy, cuddly, perfect little jerk.

Ali could not possibly be any different. I can stare at her from twenty miles away and she will quit what she's doing. What's that? I thought about telling her to stop something? She's going to go into hiding for a week as penance. I don't have to tell her. She self-punishes just fine, thank you very much.

The thing about the hiding is that I'm not kidding. She really does hide for days on end. AND SHE TAKES THINGS WITH HER.

Lots of things.

In the past six months, she has stolen two of Alexis' shoes, a camera memory card, my ID card for work, at least one Monster High Doll head (Yes, just the head. Don't ask.). That's just the things that I know about.

I know about them, but I can't find them. I have torn the house apart from top to bottom and still, no clue. NONE. ZERO. ZIP. ZILCH.

You guys, I have cleaned in an attempt to figure out where her stash is this time.

I say "this time" because she has always done this. She has always stolen things and created her own special hoarding spot. I've always been able to find her stash, though. Until now. This time she has upped her game and I have no freakin' clue. NONE.

So if you happen to have one right black Old Navy flip-flop in a toddler size 12, a Draculara head, and an extra SD card, let me know. I might need to try trick Ali into thinking I found her stash so that she will show me where it really is.

She Knew It Would Happen All Along

July 20, 2007. That was the date. That was the first time that Alexis went to a Pirates game. She was just one year old.

It was the start of a love/hate relationship.

Alexis loves the Pirates. As in, the team. She HATES the giant pirate mascot that wanders around the park. Although, I haven't seen him lately. Is he still a thing?

Regardless, Alexis has gone to dozens and dozens of Pirates games in her short life. It's one of her favorite summer activities, even when she's having an off day. She has always believed in the team and always been certain that they're good. Standings don't matter to her, she just loves the team.

She is out of her mind excited about the playoffs.

Hearing her talk about how excited she is and hearing her reminisce about games she has gone to sent me into my archives looking for posts about games. I found a bunch. Obviously. But, there was this one that I found that seemed about right as the Pirates play in their first playoff game in way too many years. I figured I'd repost it since I'm too busy staring at baseball on my TV in October to write anything new.

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One of the so-called "perks" of the March for Babies this year was that everyone who raised at least $25 was given a ticket to the Pirates game. While I generally think I should be paid to bestow my wondrous presence on the Epic Suck that is the Succos, free isn't all that bad of a deal. So, I drug the husband and kid to the game. It was there that I took this photograph:

It's Pittsburgh, reflected perfectly in Alexis' sunglasses.

Later, looking through my photos from the day, it struck me--that photo accurately summarizes what Alexis has done for my relationship with Pittsburgh. She sees it differently than I do, with the wide-eyed wonderment and innocence that comes with being 4-years old.

When she looks at Pittsburgh, she sees big buildings, including one that she says looks like an ice castle and another that she proudly declares is where her daddy works. She doesn't see the homeless people that roam the streets.

When she looks at Pittsburgh, she sees the home of most of the people that she loves dearly. She doesn't see the corruption and stupidity that run rampant through the city government.

When she looks at Pittsburgh, she sees fun. She thinks of the joy of splashing in the Water Stairs, the rush of bike riding along the Eliza Furnace Trail, and the wonderment of all that is the Cultural District. She doesn't see deficits and unemployment and high taxes.

When she looks at PNC Park, she sees the home of her favorite baseball team, the Pittsburgh Pirates. If you ask her if they're going to win, she always says, "Yes!" Her devotion comes straight from her heart, a product of her self-built love for all that is Pittsburgh. If you don't believe me, just know that Mr. Husband is even more cynical about the Pirates' hopes for a half-decent season than I am. She believes in the Pirates despite the fact that her parents do not.

When Alexis sees Pittsburgh, she sees perfection. Thanks to her, I am constantly reminded to see it the same way.

Remembering or Forgotten?

Since I happen to like taking photographs more than is probably healthy, I was very quick to volunteer to be "Picture Mom" for cheer.

Hey. Everybody has to volunteer for something. I figured I should volunteer for something that I actually liked doing. SO BACK OFF, YO.

Anyway.

The thing about being Picture Mom is that it is an exercise in patience. No matter how many times I reposition myself, no matter how long of a lens I use, no matter what I do, I end up with this one scenario. It's the scenario where I'm sitting there with thousands of dollars worth of camera equipment, but I can't actually take a photograph of a single one of the cheerleaders because a parent is standing in my line of vision taking a picture with his or her cell phone.

It never fails. It happens EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. Somebody stands at the fence that separates the bleechers from the field, and they shoot video or take pics for several minutes on end.

For the record, the scenario doesn't make me mad. It makes me sigh. It makes me sigh for a multitude of reasons, not the least of which being that if *I* can't see, neither can those around me. We're all there to watch our kids and it really is lame when we can't do exactly that.

But the bigger reason it makes me sigh is because of how I view cell phone photography.

Now, chill out. I'm not about to diss cell phones. In fact, I think there are times when you can take a better photo with a cell phone than you can with a professional quality camera.

Rather, the thing that makes me twitch is what happens to *my* cell phone pics. Every once in a while I'll start to run out of room on my phone and it will be time to clean house. I scroll through photos, picking and choosing whether to delete or move to an online storage place (usually DropBox or Flickr, in case you're curious). I do a fairly good job of sorting and moving and deleting what should be deleted, but then that's it. That's the last thing I do with the pictures from my cell phone.

I don't get prints.

I don't make photo books.

Nothing.

The photos exist digitally somewhere which may or may not be accessible in 20 years, but that's it.

Is that the same for most people? Or do people who rely fully on their cell phones to capture memories take the time to get prints, make photo books, or otherwise find a way to save their photos and make them enjoyable for eternity? It seems that if that great photo you took of your kid exists only on your phone -- a phone you probably will replace in two years -- maybe it's like it doesn't exist at all.

All of those photo albums our parents made were a precious gift. And now I'm going to make it a point to make several for Alexis because, really, remembering those things only works if I remember them somewhere she is guaranteed to be able to see in several years.