MSI Press Blog

  I used to think housecleaning was about control. Then, I got a cat. Now I know. It’s about adaptation, humility, and the ability to clean the same spot five times without losing your mind. Here’s what my cat taught me: Clean around the cat. If he’s sleeping on the couch, the couch is off-limits. If he’s sprawled across the laundry, you wait. Cleaning becomes a dance of detours. Fur is eternal. You can vacuum, lint-roll, and sweep, but the fur will return. Accept it. Embrace it. Learn to measure cleanliness in layers, not absolutes. Mystery crumbs are part of life. Cats knock things over. Cats drag things in. Cats leave things behind. You will clean up substances you cannot identify. You will not win. Timing is everything. Never mop before zoomies. Never dust before a nap. Never assume the litter box will stay clean for more than 10 minutes. Clutter is strategic. That pile of papers? A launchpad. That laundry basket? A throne. That box you meant to recycle? A fortress. C...

  Grandmothering is an art — part patience, part presence, part knowing when to step in and when to let life unfold. I thought I learned that from experience. Turns out, my cat had been tutoring me for years. Cats are natural grandmas: they move at their own pace, they supervise everything, and they believe deeply in the power of a well‑timed snack. Living with one taught me more about grandmothering than any parenting book ever did. Here are the lessons that stuck: Rituals matter. Cats thrive on the sacredness of routine — the morning greeting, the evening check‑in, the predictable place at the table. Grandchildren do too. Rituals become memory anchors. Patience is a form of love. A cat will sit beside you quietly for as long as it takes. No rush, no pressure. Children feel that same safety when you match their tempo instead of hurrying them along. Gentleness doesn’t mean fragility. Cats are soft, but they are not weak. Grandmas are the same. Strength wrapped in warmth is its...

  I’ve taught students of all ages. But none prepared me for the complexity of teaching a cat. He didn’t follow instructions. He didn’t care about rubrics. He didn’t respond to praise. And yet — he taught me everything I needed to know about good teaching. Here’s what I learned: Differentiated instruction is non-negotiable. Some cats respond to treats. Some to tone. Some to silence. Students are the same. One method never fits all. Behavior is communication. A sudden “mwout,” a tail flick, a refusal to engage — these are messages. I learned to decode behavior instead of punishing it. Positive reinforcement works. Cats don’t respond to scolding. But a well-timed treat? A gentle stroke? That’s motivation. Students thrive on encouragement, not fear. Timing matters. Try to teach a cat when they’re sleepy, distracted, or zooming? You’ll fail. Students have windows of readiness. Catch them, and magic happens. Environment shapes behavior. A cluttered space makes a cat anxious. ...

  Cats are not children — but they are astonishingly good at teaching you how to be with children. Mine certainly did. Somewhere between the “mwout” debates, the 3 a.m. hallway zoomies, and the silent stares that communicated entire paragraphs, I realized I was being trained. Thoroughly. And with great precision. Here are the lessons I didn’t know I needed: Patience is not optional. A cat will come when a cat is ready. So will a child. You can call, coax, plead, or offer treats, but the moment you stop hovering is the moment they appear. Boundaries are love in action. A cat who walks away is not rejecting you; they’re regulating themselves. Children do the same. Respecting space is part of respecting personhood. Affection has its own timing. Cats give affection in bursts — sudden, intense, and often when you’re busy. Children, too, have windows of connection. Miss them, and you wait for the next one. Routines matter more than rules. Feeding time, play time, quiet time — ...