258. Fur Baby

When you’re a mother (of humans, dogs, cats or any other creature), every day is filled with small delights. Today we celebrate the love between one mother and her new kitten. 

Transcripts may not appear in their final version and are subject to change.

I’m Nora McInerny and It’s Going To Be Okay. 

Today’s okay thing comes from Susan Marine, who sent us this email: 

I knew from a very young age that I was not going to be a mother when I grew up. Dolls really didn’t interest me, and I didn’t feel that nurturing vibe that most young girls start to tap into when they babysit as teenagers. Babysitting for me was all about seeing what kind of snacks other people kept in their cabinets. This is how I discovered one of the great loves of my life, brown sugar cinnamon pop tarts.

Anyway, I’m sharing this because to my great surprise, well beyond my child rearing years, I’ve recently caught the stirrings of the mommy gene. It hits me at about 4 am every morning, when my 6 month old kitten, teeny, decides to rouse me from slumber with the following ritual:

She begins by sidling up my left hip and ever so nimbly leaping on to the eight square inches of belly that contains virtually all of my internal organs. This would terrify me, being in a deep slumber as I am, but because she only weighs four pounds, I choose to receive it as a loving nudge, instead of an assault.

Once she is perched comfortably on my pancreas, her motor flips on, and let me tell you– That purr could peel the paint off the sistine chapel, and again, I’m not exactly thrilled about this, as I am still regaining consciousness from REM sleep…. but it’s damn cute, and after all, no one knows why cats purr so I decide as I start to become lucid that I might as well just join the human race in not fully getting that particular mystery.

Eventually, teeny seeks greener pastures, and by greener pastures I mean “the extremely generously proportioned shoulders” I got from being on crutches for six months when I was thirteen.Teeny has figured this out, so her next move is to head north, where she plants herself squarely on my chest, just below my collarbone, and commences to knead my quasi-linebackers like she is making the biscuits of all biscuits that ever were biscuits. 

Amazingly, she knows not to use her talons– her little black toe beans, constructed of toasty warm velvet, are blessedly the only implements she wields. This is about the time I start giggling, first softly and then uproariously, at the absurdity of this tiny, stealthy animal, macerating my fleshy shoulder into oblivion, burbling with an intensity that makes me marvel that her miniscule purr-maker doesn’t just pop right out of her perfect little mouth.

Kittens being kittens, yes, it’s cute. You might be wondering, how or why do I surmise this has anything to do with motherhood? As I observed my sister and my close friends becoming mothers over the years, one of the things I was gobsmacked by was the absolute fascination they had with almost anything their kids did. And not just the expected things like first steps, first words, or first laughter, but also that really adorable time baby Lizzy ate a box of gummi bears, drank a mountain dew and then puked all over the clearance rack at Marshall’s. It seemed there was almost nothing that wasn’t interesting, captivating, or at least completely and genuinely tolerated, even if it created some chaos, and required effort, time, or energy from the mom. I wondered often to myself, how do moms love their kids so much that they find almost everything they do not just worthy but downright darling.

Then I got this kitten. And let me tell you, the girl who never wanted kids, who grew up to be the woman who loves sleeping as much as most people love The Bachelor, has relinquished all sense of her previous self-centeredness to this wee, noisy, completely clueless little feline who simply cannot manage to stay still in bed when it’s nowhere near time for her next round of fancy feast. She’s gotta get some body heat, she’s gotta rearrange my innards, she’s gotta make those biscuits, and she’s gotta do it all while I am basically unconscious. Until I am not anymore, because as I wake to find myself turned into some kind of playground for an animal that shares 97% of its DNA with a cougar, I find myself utterly, irrationally charmed. And I am pretty sure that is the closest I’ll ever get to knowing what it’s like to be a mom. For a moment, it all clicks into place, and I am reminded that one of the best things about being human is that we get to experience wildly unconditional love for the smallest, most beloved creatures in our care.

Being the human momma of this particular tiny, whirring, kneading, dancing-on-my-organs little miracle while she engages in these hijinks every morning helps me remember that it’s going to be okay. And anyway, I’m awake now, and it’s almost time to get up and have a pop tart. Brown sugar cinnamon only please, with butter.