Before we had children, my husband and I decided to adopt a cat.
We were in our early 20s, starting our jobs that we hoped would turn into careers, living in a sunny one-bedroom apartment. We had to download forms off the internet, fill them out, and take them to an office where a woman looked at us sternly from across her desk. She asked us if we had a vet.
A vet? No, we don’t have a vet. We don’t even have a pet. Yet.
She asked about how we would care for the cat. What was our position on declawing? Do you know what type of food you plan on feeding it? How many hours in a typical day will the cat be home alone?
I answered carefully, and tried to be thoughtful. We had nothing but good intentions for our hypothetical kitty! Then I made the error that closed down the whole operation.
Will you let your cat outdoors?
Yes! I answered. Of course I’ll let the little kitty outside! Back in my carefree childhood in the 70s and 80s, our childhood cats enjoyed roaming outdoors, hiding among my mother’s hostas, pouncing on bugs, and stalking squirrels. We had more than a few dead mice delivered proudly to our front door, gifts from our fierce huntress returning from the wild.
The woman across the desk pursed her lips at me and my heart sank. Imperceptibly, her head shook. I shifted uncomfortably in the vinyl chair. That’s when she explained to me that at this rescue, they required all their adopted cats to be kept indoors.
We went home empty-handed. We had been deemed unfit to adopt a cat.
But only a year or so later, I was wheeled out of the maternity ward at the local hospital, holding my son, who weighed about the same as a cat, but arguably needed a lot more care than a furry feline.
Over the course of a decade, I was wheeled out of the maternity ward three more times. The weight of each tiny bundle would make me wonder anew, “Am I qualified to do this?”
When I left the maternity ward with a baby in my arms, no one asked me questions. No one asked if I would take the baby to museums, or feed it organic food, or limit screen time. There were no questions about my views on discipline or what kind of bedtime stories I’d keep on the bookshelf.
If someone had asked me those questions, I’m not sure I would’ve given all the right answers.
Parenting remains the most joyful thing I’ve done in my life, while at the same time being the most challenging trial-by-error obstacle course with no clear endpoint. Taking on the responsibility of a child means taking on all the cute antics, first steps, and shrieks of pride at the first lap around the block on a two-wheeled bike. I personally love the nervous/brave smile as a Kindergartener walks into a classroom for the first time. There are spills, diaper blowouts and sleepless nights, while also navigating epic temper tantrums, heartbreak, and late-night trips to the emergency room. I was granted the lofty and weighty title of “Mother” before I even knew what that meant—for me, for my marriage, for my career. I had no idea what kind of mother I would be to my children. What mistakes would I make?
In a way, I wish I had the lady from the cat rescue place at the maternity ward with me. She had an air of confidence about her that I lacked; she seemed to ask the right questions. Maybe if she had interviewed me at the maternity ward, I would’ve had a better idea of the direction I was supposed to go as a parent. Maybe I wouldn’t have made so many mistakes. On the other hand, maybe she wouldn’t have allowed me to take the baby home with me at all.
I grew up alongside my children, as we learned to navigate our life together. They have brought me so much joy. At the same time, when things hurt or disappoint them, I feel their heartache as intensely as if it were happening to me, too.
It’s funny to me that there is an entrance exam for pet ownership, but not for parenthood. For the record, I think I would’ve been a pretty good cat mom. But I’m glad my tiny humans with ten fingers and ten toes were sent home with me. I got to try my best.
