I'm Sorry, Shadow

"I think you need to shoot the cat," I said to Cody in early June as I walked in the house one evening after work. 

"What?! Why?" he instantly asked with a concerned look on his face, obviously fearing the worst.

Our barn cat - affectionately named Shadow because she follows so closely that she tripped me twice during her first week on the farm - began looking pretty rough not long ago.

"Have you seen her lately? She's so skinny. Strung out. Sometimes she drags one leg. She hasn't blinked in weeks. I think you need to put her out of our misery," I presented my argument. 

"Geezo preezo (famous CS line)...give her a break. She isn't dying; she just had four kittens. I'm not shooting her - she is taking care of her young," his bleeding heart responded.

Well, I tried. 

Now, two and a half weeks into motherhood, I'd like to take this time to publicly apologize. 

I'm sorry, Shadow. 

I so get it now. 

For a month I've watched you hide on one side of the barn while your beady-eyed babies meow for a milky treat. I've watched you lie alone in the shade and not move a muscle to console them while they look around for you. I thought you were heartless. Non-maternal. Lazy. 

I get it now. Two days ago a beady-eyed baby in my living room woke from a nap earlier than I anticipated and I dropped to the floor and army crawled across the carpet to the staircase so she wouldn't see me. She wasn't crying, but she was searching. I don't even know if she can see me at this age? She is always looking around, aimlessly; in fact up until Saturday, we assumed she was blind. I get it, Shadow. I understand not wanting to be seen, for just a few more minutes, until you get one more thing done. I get wanting to use your arms for thirty more seconds. I understand wanting to change the laundry out in the basement without hearing a blood-curling scream through the farmhouse register. 

I'm sorry, Shadow.

I so get it now. 

I've always wondered why you act half-dead during feeding time. Like, on your side, eyes shut, barely breathing, no movement, half-dead. Totally taken advantage of. 

For the record, I'm not the one who made the giant ball of yarn/twine 

for the kittens' entertainment, but I bet you can guess who did. 

I feed only one baby and every two hours she sucks the life right out of me. I understand half-dead because right now I'm living on under-eye concealer paired with waterproof mascara, middle-of-the-night Snapchats from single friends, chicken salad from the church ladies, Dr. Phil reruns, and a cup of black coffee I've warmed up three times in the microwave. Sometimes I fall asleep in the nursery and wake up only because the beautiful, snoozy infant in my arms reminds me that it's time to feed, again. I get it. 

I'm sorry, Shadow.
I so get it now. 

From our patio I've watched you tackle your kids, hold them down with two legs, and bath them using such force that you could be a prime story on the CBS Evening News resulting in a peaceful protest. I've watched them resist, fight back, then finally give in. 

I get it now. I've tried to bath a baby 1/25 my weight only four times and each time I cry more than she does. I get the struggle. I know why you use gentle force - because they're a double threat:  breakable and slick. I have a fancy farmhouse kitchen sink bath tub and I still worry about drowning, missing a crease and using too much soap. 

They say parenthood changes things and I couldn't agree more. 
Until last week I had never cried tears of joy when zipping up my favorite mom jeans.

Or, publicly written an apology letter to a feral cat.

I think I need a hobby.