Archive | October, 2016

Lost Pet Anxiety (aka I Miss My Cat)

25 Oct

UPDATE: Three days after originally posting this blog, Cat showed up at our house completely unharmed, albeit a few pounds lighter. YAY!

It has been one week and one day since our adorable and, apparently, stupid cat leapt over our dog and ran into the dark and foggy outdoors. One week and one day, and there’s still no sign of her.

I spent the first five days of Hazel’s absence in a bit of denial. I was feeling pretty confident that she would come home. We had done, literally, every single thing suggested to us by the humane society, the microchip company, lost cat organizations, friends, and Twitter strangers. With all of these steps taken, why wouldn’t she come home?

But then she didn’t come home.

This whole situation has me feeling anxious, all the time. I check out the windows routinely, obsessively, and compulsively. I jump at even the slightest sound from outside. To say her loss is stressing me out is a gross understatement. I’m not accustomed to situations where there’s nothing more I can do. Usually if I try harder or devote more time I can get the results I’m shooting for. Short of spending entire days wandering our neighborhood shaking a treat bag (which isn’t exactly realistic), I can’t think of anything else I can or should be doing to bring Hazel home. I hate it.

I think what I hate most are the unanswered questions. Is she truly lost, such that she can’t find her way back home? Or does she remember where home is and just doesn’t want to come back? Did she get taken in by a nice family that for inexplicable reasons hasn’t checked with the local animal shelter to make sure she’s not already someone’s pet? Did she pledge her undying loyalty to a gang of feral cats? Or, is it the other option that I try to pretend isn’t a real possibility?

Enough people have shared with me stories of cats that have been gone for weeks before turning up at home that I’m not ready to throw in the towel just yet. I just can’t wrap my mind around her being gone for good. So I’m going to continue to leave the garage door open a tiny crack. I’m going to continue to drive 2 mph through my neighborhood like I’m planning a crime. And yes, I’m going to continue to shake a tupperware of cat food out my window as I drive that ridiculously slow speed.

In the meantime, if you live near me, please keep your eyes peeled. If you don’t live near me, please keep your fingers crossed. We miss our kitty.

hazel

 

Mom Guilt

12 Oct

This past Sunday when bestie was over we somehow got on the topic of Mom Guilt.

Mom Guilt is a special brand of guilt reserved for mothers who are doing their best to do it all. It’s feeling guilty when you tell your toddler he can’t play outside because you have to stay inside and feed the baby. It’s feeling guilty when you let your baby cry for ten minutes while you finish your shower. It’s feeling guilty when you let your children watch more television than you know is good for them so that you can do the dishes. It’s feeling guilty when you neglect the dishes so that you can take the time to write for the first time in months.

Now, I don’t presume to speak on behalf of all mothers, but I have spoken to enough of my mom friends to know that most experience at least some Mom Guilt on a semi-regular basis.

I’ve been experiencing higher than average levels of Mom Guilt these past few weeks. I know that logically this is to be expected given the recent addition of Child #3 to our family. I keep telling myself that it’s normal for things to fall behind and priorities to shift while we adjust to life as a family of five. I tell myself this, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

I’m doing my best to turn my life into a spinoff of an improv game I once played. Instead of adding, “yes, and…” to the end of each of my sentences, though, I’m adding an, “and that’s okay” to the end of each of my admissions of guilt.

Yes, Child #2 hasn’t had a ton of Vitamin D lately, and that’s okay. Yes, Child #3 had to scream bloody murder in order for me to shave my armpits, and that’s okay. You get the idea.

It’s okay because I’m doing the best I can. As much as I’ve prayed to the gods for superpowers or, even better, my very-belated Hogwarts letter, I sadly remain a mere human, and a muggle at that.

I’m not perfect. Even on my best days, there are still going to be dirty bottles on the counter and unfolded laundry in the dryer. There are going to be times when my household obligations don’t get my attention because of time spent with my children and vice versa. This doesn’t make me a failure as a mother, or as a spouse (side note: Spouse Guilt is another beast, entirely). It makes me normal.

I need to do better at reminding myself that at the end of each exhausting day [How long until babies sleep through the night, again? No, seriously, I can’t remember.] my children go to bed with all their basic needs met. Even better, they are (usually) happy, and at least somewhat clean. Most importantly, they are loved, and that is more than okay.