Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development; Or, Why It's Never by Lancaster, Jen (e books free to read .txt) 📕

speak bull’s eye. I can even tell you which Target carries my favorite brand of milk [Grassland at the Target Highland Park.] and which stocks my favorite moisturizer [Johnson’s Deep Hydrating Lotion at the Target Vernon Hills.] and I plan my shopping trips accordingly. But until today I’ve not had much reason to set foot in the baby aisles.

Let me just say this—I had no idea having a baby required so many accessories. From onesies to crib bumpers to lanolin-based n-i-p-p-l-e salve, how does anyone have a kid without going completely broke? Just getting a nursery ready for Day One of a baby’s life has to cost thousands of dollars and that’s way before they start crying for Air Jordans or flip phones or whatever it is the kids need these days to preserve their self-esteem. You have one kid and you’re never going to be able to afford that generator. And didn’t people used to have their babies sleep in drawers fifty years ago? Where did all these products come from?

There’s even a million choices when it comes to baby monitors. I’ll probably opt for the thirty-dollar model because all I want to do is hear if the cat comes into the garage. But how does any new parent see the option with the video feed and not buy it?

As I stand next to the monitors, a couple of people give me big, happy smiles while Fletch and I compare features. In every other part of this store, everyone’s always rude and wedging in front of me. But in this aisle, the assumption is that we’re first-time parents and the attitudes are adjusted accordingly. I haven’t the heart to tell anyone I have a missing cat. [And really? I’m just kind of fat.]

After Target, I spend more time in the woods, but find nothing. Yet I feel hopeful that something good’s going to happen because I’ve employed every possible suggestion I was given [Except for the peeing and I’m not above doing that.] including taping some of the cats’ whiskers to an unseen part of the wall. I have no clue as to why this is supposed to work, but damn it, I’m trying anyway.

Before we get ready for bed, we slosh sardine juice all over the cage and place the bits of fish into a plastic bowl. I’ve been told the more highly scented the lure, the better. If I don’t catch a freaking bear with this stuff, I’ll be shocked. And even though I’ve happily eaten far more disgusting stuff, I have to put a scarf over my mouth when doling out the sardines.

We set the trap and once I’m in bed, I concentrate on Gus extra hard when I say my prayers. It’s been three days—my feeling is he’s coming back tonight or he’s not coming back at all. For the past two days, Odin and Chuck have been wandering past the doors and windows all confused, like something’s out of place, but they’re not sure what. It’s a little heartbreaking.

So tonight is my line in the sand—if Gus doesn’t come back, I’ll have to accept he doesn’t want to. Tonight determines if we actually have the bond that I imagined. I have such trouble believing that the little guy who curls up with me every night was just biding his time until he could make his escape. I think of last week when I was watching So You Think You Can Dance and he was sitting on my chest. Whenever Gus is really happy, he drools. And he must have been delighted because long strings were hanging out of either side of his mouth. Had I known then that might have been our last time, I wouldn’t have been so quick to be annoyed when he slobbered all over my shirt.

I fall asleep cradling the baby monitor. Fletch and I laugh that this is likely the first and last time we’ll ever do so, but there’s a part of me that’s intrigued to experience one small parenthood rite of passage.

I wake up at dawn and immediately dash out the front door. The trap has been sprung and there’s something inside. I can’t tell what because the towel’s obscuring the contents. I’m hoping desperately that it’s my boy, but whatever it is we’ve caught, I’m keeping it and I hope it likes to snuggle. I hold my breath and bend to retrieve the trap.

I hear him before I even see him. The yowl coming out of those bars is unmistakable. I heard those sounds the first time when we were trying to move three very small, sick, angry kittens from one cat carrier to another. Then I heard them again when administering ear mite drops and checking on stitches. Sometimes I hear it when Libby gets a little pushy with where she places her snout.

The sound is unmistakable and it can come from only one source.

My little guy is home.

I rush him in the house and give him a quick inspection before I open the trapdoor. Other than a scratch under his eye, he looks the same, only a little skinnier. He dashes immediately to his litter box in the basement and I idly wonder exactly how long he held it. Then he saunters back up the stairs to his food dish and digs in. The other cats crowd around him, their itch from the past few days finally scratched.

But after he’s done with his usual business, he begins to head-butt me like he does every time he wants to be picked up. I hug him and kiss him and inhale the scent of freshly cut grass. He purrs loudly before passing out.

I suspect that although he’s been on a grand adventure, he’s very happy to be home.

Ever since the cats’ triumphant return, they’ve been extra-affectionate. They’ve taken to sleeping with us and now I can’t sit at my computer without a cat curling up between me and the keyboard. Although they can’t say