I’m on to you. I see the way you look at us. Those devious cat eyes glaring at us from under the rocker during a 2 a.m. feeding. You don’t think I see you, but I do. You see, I’ve been watching you, too. I am aware of what you are up to, you maniacal bitches. Go ahead, chew on the newly purchased stuffed lamb with a bell inside of it that we bought to make her giggle. Rip it to shreds. I’ve got plenty of money and there is a Pottery Barn for Kids right down the street from our house. And if you are attempting to mark your territory with the “wet spots” that I find in her nursery, you better step up your game. It takes a lot more than damp carpet to raise my ire. The vomiting? What the hell is that all about? Just because she can do it without getting sprayed with the squirt bottle and chased down the stairs, you think that gives you the right, too? Your constant pleas for attention are duly noted. I can deal with these things, and I can deal with your perching atop our headboard while we sleep, making your low, guttural cries, begging for attention, yet at the same time figuring out ways to disfigure my face with your rear claws and sharp teeth. I can deal with that. (Although, I have to admit, you’re starting to freak me out.) But where I draw the line is with what you did yesterday. Your weaving around my feet while I carry her is not just unappreciated—it is dangerous. (Note to self: Never carry baby down the stairs with the cats around. They’ll eventually figure out that that’s where we’re most vulnerable.) This child is helpless and, though your jealousy runs deep, your deliberate attempts to “take her out” will not be tolerated. I extend my hand to you in truce. If you promise to change your ways, I promise to teach her to not chase you and grab your tails when she is mobile enough to do so. I understand your feelings of having to play second fiddle, and for that I’m sorry. Truce?