An Only Child

It's very early, I know, but I have been thinking about how this first child will be, for a while, an only child and whether it might be forever.  I'm not sure, yet.  I know it's early.  My wife said it was waaaay too early to be thinking about a second.  Maybe we could adopt.

(This was said during one of the peanut's hourly hot flashes that she lovingly shares with my wife.)

My in-laws were visiting this weekend and my father in-law was watching the family of feral cats that live behind my building.  The kittens were rolling around, playing, chasing each other.

My little cat, (okay, she's not so little...) sat on the couch.  Uninterested.

She's a little socially awkward.  She loves us and she curls up next to us, purring, all the time.  When I write, I will occasionally sit at my wife's desk next to the bed.  The cat will sit on the bed behind me, curling up so she is leaning against my back.  She's adorable.

She's also quite a bitch to anyone else who steps foot through our door.  She hisses, she swats, she growls, she hides, she bites.  She's not nice.

An opened front door is not an invitation for her to leave.  At one time she would skittishly approach the door and look out.  Now she does not.  She's uninterested.

I blame myself.  Angie and I never had people around in our little Salt Lake apartment.  The cat was never around people other than us.  She also was an only child.  She had no one to play with, or more importantly, to socialize with.  (If cat's socialize.)  And I treated her like she was a puppy for a while.  She was good at playing fetch.  But I also traumatized her, I think.  She's a cat, not a bulldog.

I don't want my child to be like that.  I know it may be a strange thing to think.  I'm pretty sure my child will be just fine, even if an only child.  But still, I think about it.

I want my child to be able to love, to play, to want to experience more of the world then exists within the walls of our apartment.