Pussy.

“Alice, for the love of God, I’m getting up at five to go to sea, please get rid of them”.
“They’re still breastfeeding”, I mumbled into my pillow, “I’ll try and settle them”. I dragged myself out of bed and sat on the carpet attempting to scoop up three nocturnal kittens who were hell bent in keeping us awake by their insistence on scritch-scratching their way up our divan bed.
I didn’t get very far as no sooner had I collected them and replaced them in their cardboard box, than they escaped and scampered around my feet, making me terrified of moving in the dark lest I trod on one of them. As quietly as possible I whispered “Puss, puss, puss”, in an effort to get them to move out of the way. Vague shadows ran along the carpet.
“Alice puh-lease”, groaned Hubby from the depths of the duvet, “I can’t stand it. My alarm is going off in an hour and with some authority I must engage with the Belgian Navy soon thereafter. I cannot do that with any conviction if I am yawning my head off”.
“Bloody long sentence for four am”, I so wanted to say, but didn’t. Rowing in the very early hours is not good for one’s soul.
“Sorry darling”, I said instead, “But I don’t really know what to do with them. They are still too little to put downstairs, besides their mother must have access to feed them”.
“Just keep them quiet then”, was the muffled reply, before sonorous sounds emanated from under the covers.
Excellent, so Hubby was once again asleep and there I was in nary a pair of knicks, on my bedroom floor with twelve sharp little claws, climbing me, crampon like. I was most miffed. I pulled my pillow down from my bed along with my dressing gown and tried to get comfortable but within seconds a high pitched scream came from the direction of my youngest girl’s bedroom.
“Mummy!” Wearily I extricated the claws from my skin and heaved myself off the floor and cocked a leg over the makeshift gate that we have put across our bedroom door to stop kittens escaping. I sat down heavily on my three year old’s bed and stroked her red hair. “What is it sweetie?” I asked soothingly. Anything to keep the drama to a minimum and allow me back in my bed, ASAP.
“There are frogs all over the floor”, she sobbed, grabbing my arm and literally climbing onto me. “Take them away mummy, take them away”.
“Shush now darling. It’s just a dream, there are no frogs anywhere”.
Unconvinced, she jumped off my lap and onto her sister’s bed, screaming, “They’re everywhere! Get rid of them!” The bigger sister, it goes without saying, woke up immediately and started to cry, “What’s happening mummy? I’m tired. Why is she on my bed?”
“There, there” I continued with my soothing voice, “Your sister is having a bad dream, that’s all. Turn over”. I cradled the younger one, allowing the elder to go back to sleep, then after a quick lullaby, lay down with the youngest on her single bed. Finally her sobs subsided and nestling into a very uncomfortable niche in my lower back, she went to sleep. As I lay there, contemplating on how long I’d have to lie in such an excruciating position before getting up, Hubby like some naked apparition, appeared before me, “Oh there you are Alice. They’re at it again”.
All efforts to keep quiet and clam were now surrendered and I rose from the bed with the ferocity of an enraged viper.
“Look I know that your life is far more important than mine and that as such I should be the one awake all night but right now sleep is as elusive to me as it was to Macbeth and equally I am likely to do something murderous”. The Red Head was now awake again babbling once more about invisible amphibians.
Hubby, illuminated only by the dim light of a Barbie night light, looked hurt and confused.
“Don’t be like that Alice but I really have to be on the ball tomorrow” before adding, as he ruffled the Red Head’s hair, “is she on LSD?”
“Not that I’m aware of”, I replied standing up now and rocking a surprisingly heavy child. “Why don’t you go and sleep in the spare room?”
“Fine”, he replied sulkily and with as much dignity as is possible when one’s crown jewels are swinging unfettered, turned on his heel and went downstairs. I in turn carried my youngest onto my bed and put her in the spot her father had recently vacated. The kittens, ignorant of the dawn dispute they had created were now huddled together in one oblivious fluff ball.
The light of the day was seeping under my roman blind and I pulled a pillow over my head. Within minutes it seemed, the bugling sounds of Reveille, which Hubby, in his inimitably anchor faced way, uses as an alarm call, sounded from his mobile phone which was by his side of the bed. Shattered, I leant over the Red Head and turned it off with every intention of going downstairs to inform Hubby that he needed to get up. Only I didn’t. I just momentarily lay my head back on my pillow and was woken by his mobile phone again. Only this time it wasn’t the alarm, this time it was the ringing tone.
“Hullo?”, I said guardedly.
“Can I speak with Commander Band?” Commander Band, on being informed that he was late for work was not in a happy place and I was told in no uncertain terms as he left the house in a flurry of shaving foam and foul language that “Homes have to be found for those bloody cats or else...”