Toots, our most divine cat, used to make admirable attempts to curl up atop my giant, pregnant belly. I wondered if she could feel the shifts and bumps from its occupant – and if the occupant thought it was mommy that was purring.

Everyone warned us: post-baby life is not reconcilable with cat-loving life. Pets of all statures, ages and species will instantly drive you to drink. You just won’t have time for them, they told us. It will be one more hassle that you would rather do without.

Inconcievable, I thought. Impossible. It will never happen.

She knows when I’m trapped under the baby, and choses those moments to shred the couch, barf on the carpet, chew leather, eat plastic and swipe any breakable in paw’s reach with a glorious smash to the floor. And we actually used to think all of the above was cute.

And, as she helpfully pointed out to me just now, she has been a Most Excellent Big Sister since she has decided not to eat Evan for breakfast after all.