It makes perfect sense that both the cat and the child arrived in the middle of various storms. Hann, the cat, was unexpectedly rescued in the city right as a typhoon was making landfall. Hann himself decided that I would be his human, and my husband his second-preferred human, right before the COVID-19 lockdown. The rhythm of his affectionate, though slightly cranky ways became a comforting cadence in the discordance of a world in flux, of the disruption of changing jobs, returning to grad school, and everything in between for three years.

Alex also arrived in the middle of a summer shower, when the world had opened up again. This time, we thought we were prepared. We read everything we could about “how to introduce your cat to your newborn.” We even had Hann sniff some of Alex’s clothes so he could get used to the baby’s scent. One thing we were adamant about was boundaries. Until Alex was bigger, Hann was not allowed to sleep in our room at night. Under no circumstances was Hann permitted in the crib. We talked things over with the pediatrician about how best to care for Alex’s needs as a newborn while not displacing Hann. We thought we had it down pat.

What I did not account for was both Hann and Alex considering my lap as free real estate. For a breastfeeding mom, this was a challenge to literally juggle. Hann would push and nudge his way in my lap while Alex was feeding. Alex would complain about the sudden change in space. I would have to put a hand in place to stop a paw or a foot from connecting with the other. This would continue till either both settled down, or until Hann would jump away to his own devices. More often than not, I would be stuck on the sofa, pinned down by both cat and child. So much for that boundary indeed.

There were many days that ended with tears from Alex and disgruntled yowling from Hann when playtime went very wrong.  It was at this point that I asked myself if our family could really make this work. Wasn’t the introduction supposed to be the difficult part, and everything going easy from there? Did Hann even like Alex at all? I feared being forced into that impossible scenario of rehoming Hann, even if there was no real pressing medical reason to do so. I wondered what more I could give, or what I was lacking, to parent them both.

Then one afternoon, I found myself more immersed in work than usual. Alex was napping in the next room. I realized that Hann was not in sight. I rushed over and saw Hann simply sitting next to Alex, watching him sleep. Hann gave me that look of “leave us alone, Mother”. I laughed and left them to it, till Hann inevitably decided that getting a snack was a better use of his time than waiting for Alex to finish his nap.

I realized that maybe this was never a zero-sum game of fighting for space. My lap, my heart, and our home were not exactly the finite resources I had thought they were. Maybe this was never about drawing lines, but about letting both cat and child figure out a connection on their own terms beyond the famed introduction.  Hann had learned his own way of reaching out, and someday Alex would find his too.

These days, I work while one, or both, climb into my lap again and again. They are now at a size where they cannot fit together, so they have learned to take turns. They still argue about it, of course. Alex looks for Hann when he disappears during the day for a nap or quiet time of his own. Hann has reclaimed his space in the room, curling up between my feet and Alex’s during late nights. It’s not the idyllic picture of “after introduction” that was promised, but something far richer—something that allows for growth and change.

Something good has come out of this collision after all.