The cat is still around. I can kind of gauge how the day went by how many times the cat got shoved -- off the counters, off the table, out of the sink, away from the fridge door, away from whatever direction I'm walking in. She tends to be underfoot a lot. She's like a third child. When Daniel is down for a nap and the baby is snoozing, I think to myself, whew, a few minutes of quiet where I don't have to worry about anybody else, but this is when the cat realizes that she has direct, unimpeded access to me. She'll even follow me into the bathroom, as if I don't have enough people watching me pee. This is also the time that she gets shut in the laundry room or a bathroom if she's being particularly pesty or if I'm out of patience.

There was much shoving of the cat on Wednesday. This is the same day that J came home to find me crying on the couch with the baby who was attached to my boob for the zillionth time that day. That was not a good day for anyone, including the cat.

Lest this sound like animal abuse, it's not. It's the kindest, gentlest shoving. Really.