Now before you run screaming from a post about cats, I assure you this has to do with more than just cats. It's about the deep and meaningful shifts of family life, the monumental realizations of conscious mothering, the metaphoric journey of.... okay, it's about cats. But I promise, there's a point.
Here's my first babe Cooper. While Coop and I have a complicated relationship – she frankly annoys the hell out of me at times – I hold her dear to my heart because she was the first critter I took on as my own as an adult. Despite how annoyingly needy (and drooly!) she can be, she is quite possibly the most beautiful cat I’ve ever laid eyes on. Cleopatra ain't got nothing on Coop's smoky eyes. And when I feel myself losing patience with our beautiful Tabby girl, I realize she is truly the Papa’s cat. The two of them have a love thing going on, and I’m happy to step aside and watch from afar.
As for Vinnie? Well, what can I say? He’s my man. Well, he’s my other man. I know I’ll elicit some raised eyebrows when I say this, but before Stella was born Vinnie and I shared an intimacy only akin to lovers. Now I know I’m probably not supposed to admit this, but I sort of felt like Vinnie, Brian and I were involved in some strange love triangle. (I mean, look at that face.... that come hither look... how could a girl resist such smoldering passion?) My little orange guy was the buddy I’d always wanted in a pet, and our immediate bond shocked even me. The Papa tolerated our kinship, but I could tell Vinnie was simply peeved that he had to share me with another being. He would join me for lunch, cuddle on my lap as I graded papers and nuzzled into my belly every night in bed. In fact, I swear he knew I was pregnant before the Papa. He wouldn’t leave my side, constantly laying across my belly in a new and fierce protective stance.
The thing is, I really felt a profound love for my cats before Stella was born. I still do. It’s just different now. I’ve been trying to figure out what’s changed, and it’s been tough to articulate. Sure, I’m now responsible for a whole other human who is pretty much entirely dependent on me for her survival. And yes, the cats need us to feed them and scoop their poop. But I really do suspect they’d survive just fine without me. Or, at least they want me to think that. My attention is definitely split, and the Papa and I have worked hard to make sure the furry family members feel loved and adored in light of the new biped in town. But again, it’s just not the same anymore.
I felt bad about this for the entire first year of Stella’s life. It deeply troubled me that these critters who didn’t ask for a new baby had to adjust so abruptly to life in the second string. It’s just been recently that I’ve wrapped my head around the fact that they’re doing just fine. In fact, I think Stella has ultimately been good for both of them. (Cooper, a previously psychopathically shy cat, has become strangely emboldened, and Vinnie now has a partner in crime in Stella.)
I know this might seem morbid, but I think the biggest difference is that I can actually rationalize Vinnie and Cooper’s ultimate demise. I mean, I know that they’re going to eventually die. It’s what you sign on for when you take on a pet. Your job is to love them as long as they’re with you and give them the best possible life. And they give a whole lot in return. But you know they’re going to kick it before you do, and it’s just part of the whole deal.
With Stella, I just assume that I won’t see the day that she dies.
God willing. God willing. God willing.
It’s a simple but momentous pact – the promise that I will outlive my children – and it keeps me going as a mother.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s going to be gut wrenchingly awful to let go of these dear family members. Just thinking about it makes me teary. But the thought of saying goodbye to Stella makes me more than teary. It literally causes me to lose my breath in the most immediate and instinctual sob I’ve ever known. It makes me queasy and blind and angry and desperate. It’s just not something I care to bear and hopefully, please please please, won’t have to.
It feels wrong to admit all this, but I can’t tell you how many new mamas I’ve talked to over the last year and a half who have expressed total frustration that they have to care for animals on top of their newborns and toddlers. What feels overwhelming becomes unbearable in those first few months. Fortunately, I feel like we’ve hit upon some balance in our home, and the cats are now back in the groove of our family circle. They seem happier, we feel happier and Stella enjoys the craziness of living with the furry ones. Despite our inevitable future farewells, I’m starting to revel again in the warm, cuddly, soft goodness of these kooky critters who, despite their ridiculously uncanny ability to puke at the worst moment possible, bring joy and humor to our lives with impressive flair.
Plus...
How can I deny the amazing, er, learning opportunities Stella experiences with cats in the house?
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