Jimmy has taken to walking around and around and around the kitchen, perhaps 40 times today, hugging the walls . She has managed to figure out how to walk again, rather like a cat wearing a cast which covers both hips and legs, but it is very obvious that she is totally disorientated, smell the only sense left that functions.

I read once that when cats are going to die, they search for a place to do so in. I placed a small box on it’s side, in a far corner of the kitchen, and eventually Jim found it, crawled into and slept for a while. I can tell that she is trying to get back into the depths of the kitchen cabinets, those alleys and tunnels which lie beyond our plates. I can’t let her in there, because there is no way that I could get her out. If she died. Which might be why she searches for that peace.

I can’t imagine that she has much longer to go. Sponge, paper towels and cleaning fluid in hand, I follow her about, all day long, as I always have.

And I have indeed been saying for years that Jimmy’s days are numbered.

And have been wrong, year after year after year.

We live very close to a very large amusement park, the Efteling. Now, should you ever be blessed by an invite to our home, a chance to inhale centuries- I kid you not- of dust, to develop new and most esoteric of allergies, you might ( or might not) notice that the walls of the staircase leading from the first floor to the second floor are covered with photos. Many- if not most- of the photos are of us with the children at the *Carnival* ride at the Efteling.

This tradition started when The Girl was but weeks old ( that’s her, in the *baby bag*) and every year, for thirteen years, we have all gone on the *Carnival Ride* just for these pictures. I suppose that I shall have to copy them, won’t I ? Sounds like sibling drama for the future, doesn’t it ?

Last year we missed our annual photo. Can you believe that, after 12 years ? But today, we arrived home, photos in hand, simply awaiting my next trip to the Hema for frames and up they go.

Now The Father- having grown up next door to this amusement park- has very definite ideas about when we should go, especially as without a season ticket, this is one pricey family outing ( think : 200 euro, for your basic family of 4). The Father believes that the best time to go to the park is when it is raining.

Uh, would I make this up ?

It rained today, off we went.

We went on oodles of rides- there were no lines at all.

But in the end, as we stomped through the entrance to the * Panda Droom*, I was feeling very sardonic indeed. Look, I said, as the rain poured over me, they have re-created a tropical rain forest, clever lads !

As we sat in the car, I looked at my hands : the pads of my fingers were quite shriveled up, as though I had sat in a bath for hours.

As I stood next to the car, directing The Father through the poorly parked family- mobiles, I heard The Father say, well, perhaps next time we shall come when the sun is shining.

I cannot help but feeling that the children will enjoy recalling how Daddy always wanted to go to the Efteling when it was raining.

Down in the kitchen this evening, The Girl displays the back pockets of her jeans.

Uh, my jeans.

Seems that the G-Stars fit her as well.

I do believe that I am in for interesting times.

Yesterday, The Girl asked me if she could try on some of my Diesel jeans. Feeling rather magnanimous, I said, sure- but cautioned her that they would most likely be far too large for her.

Today, The Girl wore my Keate jeans ( read : I love these pants beyond sanity) to school. I would not really mind this so much , IF I could find another pair in my size. For now, though, I feel that they must last for a lifetime.

Wanted, a pair of Diesel Keate jeans, size 27, 30 ( I’m short).

So, I have two big tanks now. With much grumbling ( on The Father’s part) and fumbling ( on The Boy’s part) the cabinet for the 125 liter tank has been put together. With much grumbling ( on The Father’s part) we have found the place for it.

I had promised The Baby long, long ago that if I ever got a big tank, she could indeed have a castle in it, and so this evening, she and I looked on line, for the perfect castle.

Done.

The other tank shall contain Roman Ruins, chosen by Mike.

At dinner we all discuss what to put in the big tank in the kitchen. We have decided to get some nasty fish, for they are the most beautiful of fish. Perhaps a crab. Han fancies piranhas. Meg suggests ducklings.

But then again, she also suggested a rabbit…

We shall have a good time setting up our tanks, cleaning out and redecorating our old tanks.

I have always found staring at a tank infinitely more interesting than watching TV.

A few weeks ago, I ordered a 125 liter fish tank on- line. I was sick of waiting for Mr.Jo to build me a tank ( he has more excuses than I do on a good day), and so, filled in the form. The website informed me that they would contact me within five days.

When they had not done so, I told The Father last Saturday that I wanted a B-I-G fish tank for Mother’s Day. He bought me a 120 liter tank.

Guess what came in the mail today ? Yup, I now have two great big old tanks and I’m going to have a fine time setting them up.

Having the extra big tank means that I can buy some nasty, mean fish. Nasty, mean fish are usually the beautiful of fish. Or we can get something bizarre, like a shark or a lobster, or small poisonous toads.

And- as I pointed out to The Father- it wasn’t as though I had just bought two large canary diamonds, or a pricey diesel BMW now, was it ?

This will be fun.

Today I received a letter from the school Doctor, re: The Boy. All children who turned 11 during this school year were checked by a school Doctor- for height, weight, and various vision tests. The Boy is now 144.5 cm- which means that he has grown about 15 cm in the last five to six months. The little box for too short for his age was not ticked.

But then again, they also didn’t tick the box for too thin for his height. The Boy only weighs 34 kilos- he really is all big teeth and bones at this age.

The Girl went through an amazing growth spurt at just this age. I had read that boys spurted later than girls, but I’m not seeing this happen. The Boy is shooting up.

The Boy has also warned me that he is very, very displeased about the notion that his voice shall change one day. He wants to keep his voice, he likes it fine, thank you. This stance is so exquisitely The Boy…. why, one might almost call it Vintage The Boy.

So, I say to him, you want to sound like Jiminey Cricket for the rest of your life ?

Stupid comment deserves stupid retort.

This morning as I read the paper, I heard The Baby knock something off the far end of the table. It sounded a lot like a large coin hitting the tile floors, but it wasn’t a coin. She must have stared at the floor for a few moments, in utter horror, for she had knocked the small perfume bottle that Grandpa bought her at the souk un Tunisia onto the ground. It shattered into a million tiny pieces, and all of the jasmine oil that he bought her at the souk oozed onto the floor.

She was so very upset that I told her while she was in school this morning, I would look around on the internet and see if I could find her another tiny, glass perfume bottle…

And I did.

We all noticed that a few days ago, Jimmy’s left leg sort of…gave out. As the days have passed, the leg has become more and more useless, leaving her with a tendency to move in circles as she tries to figure out how to lead life lame. This morning, both of her back legs were out.

I carried her over to her kitty litter and she peed. I took her to her food, not interested. I placed her on the couch and she slept most of the day. Her eyes opened briefly when The Father came home at about lunch time and she had such a content and happy look about her that he and I both agreed that we would just tote her around as long as she seemed to be without pain.

But I cannot help but feel that her days are numbered.

Then again, I have been thinking that for the last 3 or 4 years.