There’s a special kind of rage that only comes from finally getting both kids to sleep, curling up in bed, and then—BAM BAM BAM—the unmistakable sound of a cat treating your hallway like an Olympic gymnastics floor. At three in the morning.
Why 3 a.m.? I have no idea. Maybe that’s when cats are at their peak strength. Maybe they sense my REM cycle and think, “Now’s the time.” Whatever the reason, my cat has decided this is her hour. Every. Single. Night.
It usually starts with the warm-up: sprinting across the bedroom and launching herself off the dresser. Then it escalates. She leaps on top of the laundry basket, claws her way up the curtains, and does a backflip off the headboard like she’s auditioning for Cirque du Soleil. Meanwhile, I’m clutching my pillow, whispering prayers that she doesn’t wake Anthony, because if he gets up, I’m done for.
Sometimes she drags props into the performance. A toy mouse, a crumpled receipt, one time an actual sock from the hamper. I’ve woken up to the sound of her batting these objects around the hardwood like she’s training for the Cat Olympics. And just when I think she’s done—silence. Sweet, sweet silence—she bolts again, claws clicking across the floor like tap shoes.
Rex thinks it’s hilarious. He doesn’t hear half of it because he sleeps like a rock, and when he does wake up, he just chuckles and says, “She’s just playing.” Excuse me, Rex, but this is not play. This is psychological warfare. Nico thinks it’s “awesome” and has tried to stay up to watch the show. Anthony once yelled at her, “Go to BED, kitty!” which honestly, same.
But the worst part? The grand finale. Right when I’ve drifted back to sleep, she decides my chest is the perfect springboard. Nothing says good morning like a ten-pound cat using your ribcage as a launch pad. My scream probably scared her, but you know what? She had it coming.
Here’s the kicker, though—I’ll still forgive her. Every single time. She’ll curl up on my pillow around 6 a.m., purring like an angel, and I forget all about the chaos. And then, like clockwork, she does it again the next night. I swear, I’m living with a furry, four-legged parkour champion who’s secretly trying to break me.
So if you ever hear someone yell “STOP RUNNING ON THE WALLS” at an ungodly hour, it’s probably me. And no, it’s not the kids this time. It’s the cat. Always the cat.