Rosie Posie Cottontail

Dear Rosie,

Christmas won't be quite whole without you. Though gone are the days of you drinking all the "spice water" out of the tree and enthusiastically chasing a laser pointer around the living room, you remain very much at the center of our Christmas celebrations. Whether perched in front of the tree or meowing pitifully until we get your pillow set out in front of the fireplace, you have always been our Christmas cat.

Of course, you didn't start out that way--as a Christmas cat, I mean. You started out as a tiny fluffball of a runt, the littlest one in the litter by far, the one who insisted on kneading me firmly in the armpit before attempting repeatedly to suckle on my arm. Perhaps taken from your mama a bit before you were ready, you seemed to imprint on me from the first night in our home with Guillie, and that has never changed. Not a night in the last 17.5 years has gone by in our home that hasn't found you tucked cozily in the crook of my arm, body under the covers and head sharing my pillow.

You've had to adjust quite a bit in the year and a half since your sister went up to heaven, and I'm so sorry for that. It's clear how much you miss her (not to mention how much you wish she was still here to deflect Lily's energetic adoration of you). You've learned to make do, to snuggle with Ozzy when necessary and to endure Lily's affection, but it hasn't been easy.

We joke that you are our cranky old lady, the one who tells us when she should be fed, who yowls until we form a lap, who constantly demands our attention and affection. But, Rosie Posie Cottontail, the truth is that your fur has soaked in more of my tears, your ears have endured more of my rants, and your comforting warmth has soothed more of my heartache than anyone could possibly imagine. If animals can be children--and I believe they can--then you are the child who first prepared me to be a parent. And for that I owe you the world.

Lily asked if she could take this picture of you and me tonight. I'm covered in a blanket because Lily thought it might bring me extra comfort, and there's a crackling fire warming you just outside the camera's frame. Tonight has been a teary one, sweet kitten, and I expect the next 48 hours won't be much better. Because now is the moment when I have to not be selfish, when I have to confront the pain I know you're in and allow you to leave, allow you to go greet Guillie (who will be waiting right next to God, Lily reminds me) and to be joy-filled again. I just wish it didn't hurt so much to take away your pain.

We will all miss you, sweet kitten-cat. Know that our hearts will never change.

With love,

Your person mama

Life (revised version)

For over 15 years, I've been reading, reflecting on, and returning the writing of high school students. There are assignments I enjoy more than others, but there are none so challenging to grade as the revision: the moment when I'm faced with the revised version of the student's work and am left with the task of discerning what has been changed and what still remains the same.

As I read a set of revisions from my freshmen a couple of weeks ago, I found myself unintentionally separating the papers into two categories: the cover-up job versus the total overhaul. Allow me to explain.

The cover-up job is the one that seeks to fix all the cosmetic issues. The commas have been adjusted; the run-ons have been remedied; the typos have been banished; the citations are now in proper MLA format. On the surface, the cover-up job is glossier and more polished than the original, but the foundation hasn't undergone any real change.

The total overhaul, on the other hand, is often virtually unrecognizable from the original draft. The thesis has shifted focus; the evidence has changed; the previous analysis has been scrubbed and replaced with new ideas. However, all the substantive changes have also resulted in some new problems: new fragments have arisen; the title of the text still isn't in italics; the apostrophes are haphazardly placed. On the surface, the total overhaul is still a bit scratched and bruised, but the foundation is sured up and ready to take on critical eyes.

I understand why my students sometimes prefer the cover-up job: it's quicker and easier to complete, and it might even gain them the extra point or two that nudges the assignment grade from a B to a B+. But my notes on those essays are always the same: "I appreciate the small changes you made, but a real revision takes courage and time. It requires your willingness to erase all the hard work you put in originally in order to create something better. It asks you to challenge yourself to think new ideas and find new ways to put them on the page. Next time, I encourage you to consider completing a total overhaul. I'll be happy to support you as you do so."

As I read those revisions two weeks ago and wrote a variation of that note on many drafts, I found myself contemplating how I've responded to the revisions life has thrown at me. Have I been willing to do the work of a total overhaul, or have I been content with a quick cover-up job? Have I complained about the time spent on a revision only to find there are now new errors to deal with, or have I been willing to take a deep breath, put my head down, and continue the process for as long as it takes?

I'm not sure what the answers are to those questions--though I am sure I've met each of life's revisions with a slightly different attitude. What I do know is that, if this is the first post you ever read on this blog, and if you saw the picture of the top of my wonderful family, you might be tempted to think that you were looking at my original draft, no changes recommended, no revisions or edits required.

But then I hope you'd go back and read the years written here. The years of heartache and pain, of joy and hope, of love and sorrow. Then you might see what I see in that picture: an incredible revision of the life story I thought I was writing. The one that ends up still a bit cracked and bruised on the outside, but the one that is constantly striving towards a firmer foundation. The one that bears the weight of too many revisions to count but that somehow is the gift I get to live every day.

And, most importantly, the one that reminds me of this: when you get to the end of one revision, it's just the start of the next.