“She
trots in with button sized pupils rimmed with fiery amber. There is no sloth,
greed, anger, resistance, distrust, hate… none of that. It’s beyond pure and
full of longing and love.She runs to me, clips her paws into my trouser legs. *Tch…
those threads are ripped out now*. She looks at me “Pick me up momma”. I do and
the trousers, the scratches, the hell day at work, the ever-disappointed folks
and any tiff with the better half… all vanish. Soft silken fur with a warm
cuddly bundle lie naked in my arms. A damp snout and an eager tongue greet my
chin and neck. That’s my baby girl. And I’m her momma.”
Jennifer Aniston spoke of something very
powerful. “I don't like [the pressure]
that people put on me, on women — that you've failed yourself as a female
because you haven't procreated. I don't think it's fair. You may not have a
child come out of your vagina, but that doesn't mean you aren't mothering —
dogs, friends, friends' children”. This really struck me. Mothering or
being a mother is a powerful role. It involves nurturing, protecting,
providing, caring for, teaching and so many many tireless (and
thankless)activities by one hapless person. Nowhere, does it mention the need
or requisite of a vagina or womb to begin this process. Else, we would
shamelessly undermine the work of remand homes, foster homes, social workers
and adopters.
I am not a mother. Not by the physical
sense of having given birth. That doesn’t mean that I do not miss or imagine
the idea of having my womb filled one day and experiencing the hilarious and
serious joys of pregnancy followed by being armed with the lifelong weapon “I kept you in here for 9 months….”.
Motherhood is a beautiful, amorous, unique experience. There was a time I was
desperate to be a mother. I wanted a child and I wanted to do the whole
9-yards. I hadthe right man and I was ready. The man wasn’t and unfortunately,
thereafter, the relationship and the desire died with me. Or so I thought. It
doesn’t. It lies like a dormant volcano. Quiet and unprovoked. It just plays
occasional moody tunes with the strings lining your heart and one fine day a
whole symphony resonates. That’s when I adopted Elsa and a year after, Ella.
I thought it was all just a string of
events that fell into my lap. It wasn’t. These were subconscious plans
unknowingly orchestrated by me. I decided to take them on as babies. Mere
infants with just one or two people telling me what to expect. There was no
baby shower, no diapers or cribs, no baby things and no celebrations. It was me
and voiceless little ones. I had to observe, be extremely patient, breathe, not
complain about staying up nights, roll over and adjust sleeping positions, hunt
for their little furry bodies in a pile of pillows etc. I had to unlearn and
learn new ways to care for them, integrate them, medicate them, feed them, and love
them. All of it came naturally. I was surprised at how well I coped. I assumed
I would be a massive failure and out of pity, I would have to give them up. For
me that was a clause that didn’t exist in my decision. They were coming home
and growing old with me. There was no exchange, abandonment, giving up or any
of the sorts. They maybe another species but I would be their mother and behave
like one too.
Having them has changed me significantly. I
am calmer, more patient (with them and others too), more conditioned for
acceptance and looking forward to love in a different exchange. Over 2 years,
there are stories, photos, instances, episodes, nightmares, fights, scolding,
surprises and abundance of love. Each day is a new jungle theme at home. Today
they break something, tomorrow they create something. Today they eat something
and later they decide it’s not gourmet enough for their royal palates. Today
they are well behaved and tomorrow they make up by being real rascals. Today
they love each other and tomorrow they both question me as to why I brought the
other one home. Today they are calm and tomorrow the newspaper and freshly
laundered clothes see the ire of my attempts at disciplining them. No, you
can’t train cats. I mean you could condition them but dare not train them. They
feel insulted and have that “for real… I
mean c’mon.” look on their faces. They have multiple personalities and each
of those personalities is diabolical. Barely do you make peace with one and
understand how to tackle it a new one springs up... almost like a fresh
challenge in your face. My foster contact is always full of praises for my Elsa
and Ella. He and his family gush over how cute they are, well behaved, loving,
sit on laps and do not struggle or wiggle out, eat and drink EVERYTHING and
play with other cats. NONE of that happens in my house. They treat my abode
like the gangsta’s hideout and anything outside of these premises is remand and
correctional facilities.
I don’t mind them at all. They love me and
I love them. People’s concept of cats being selfish moody beings couldn’t be
more tangent. They have a magnanimous and interesting personality. They are
super expressive and very individualistic creatures. This only… a momma can see
and understand. Elsa loves a good head scratch; Ella drools and snoozes on
belly rubs. Elsa loves his privacy; Ella needs constant companionship. Elsa
loves fish and chunks; Ella likes kibbles. Elsa is moody, bossy and stubborn;
Ella is calm, feisty and fun. Elsa is always hungry and only wishes to sleep
like a true tabby; Ella eats minimal and gallops and amuses herself every
chance she gets. Elsa has dichromic green-blue eyes; Ella has fiery amber eyes.
I could go on and this could be a book. But they love each other and me
fiercely. They sense my absence and I deeply feel theirs when I am traveling or
on the road. They wait for me at the door and I feel empty if I enter a house
and they aren’t around doing their signature stretch and tumble over maneuver.
I could go hungry but I dare not forget their food. Life, as I knew it, had
changed.
Every plan, trip and me not being around
involved thinking of ‘what about them’. They became the core of all decisions.
Their presence and absence was the nucleus of my actions. Dad chided me about
getting them home and then being a negligent pet parent. It took me a whole
year and a stubborn Elsa in his teens for my father to understand that they
wanted to be left alone to play and thrive and not have us constantly at them.
They were to be fed minimally and allowed maximum breathing space. It was safe
to say, my dad compared their upbringing to dogs. He assumed I was torturing
them by keeping ‘em in a massive 2BHK to run amok, eat and sleep (yes…. such profound
torture). But they are happy, playful, cute and cuddly and think up new
adventures for me every day. I smack them and then I grab them and love them
equally. They are smart enough to know that despite humans being aware of the
big dilated pupil routine, it ACTUALLY works. That maneuver completely changes
the expression and emotion on their faces and the ones evoked from us. Humans
cease to be any form of force in front of our feline counterparts.
When I walk into a room and see Ella, I see
a bundle of innocence in its purest form. I see pure love and I see 0
expectations except one of love that’s unconditional in its defined form. She
is barely 2 palm sizes tall and white and tiny and in that vast space of a
room, I see her button eyes longing for me to hold her. How can I not? How can
anyone not? She was christened Minnie and was rescued and fostered with her
twin brother Mouse. She gelled superbly well with 3 adult cats in the foster
home and showed them all who’s boss at the tender age of 2 months. I loved her
to bits as she reminded me of the wildness that’s laying trapped in my heart.
My only apprehension lay in separating the siblings. I knew taking them both
would be too much so I stuck to just taking Minnie as I needed a female to keep
my Elsa in check and give him company. Both neutered, healthy and adorable as
they explored each other post being friendzoned and devoid of any natural
attraction. They look out for each other just as much as they beat each other
up. Ella loves dad and will NEVER miss an afternoon nap beside him or on top of
him, (the stance is akin to her having conquered some giant in battle).
Meanwhile dad sleeps oblivious of a furball parked on his body somewhere. When
she is accidentally/deliberately locked up inside a cupboard or cabinet, Elsa
parks himself outside that door until we open it and let her out. This is one
of the signature ways of finding where either cat is. Litter trails are another
story. Elsa is prissy and clean like any cat. Miss Elsa thinks litter is
something to express boundless joy in as she rolls and scatters the fresh lot
of it ALL over the place – much to the chagrin of my father who has enough
reasons to throw us all out. I watch her go nuts, imagine a smile on her face
and then clean up. A routine I am used to :)
2 years into mothering these two has taught
me tremendous amount of all things mothers do except being a human mother. As
some random poster proudly declared, ‘yes… my children have paws’. I am not
sure if now, I ever wish to bear my own or procreate or my better half wishes
for one of our own. However, I think that these two do a good job of filling that
void. I don’t think of them as temporary or as replacements. I don’t think of
them as wild or something to pass a few years or attempt a trial. They are my
heart, my song, my love, my kids and my endless stories that escape every time
someone asks me about them. They are a reason for many things good in my life
and their value is at par if not above having human kin. They may not have the
ivy league dream, the marriage and the future, but they have their own
individual future. I invest in them with as much love and pampering as I would
do my own blood and flesh. I love them fiercely and cannot imagine in any realm
that I am less than a mother. I hope that their biological momma is smiling and
content that I am keeping her lil ones on a pedestal :)
Paws and purrs!
