The Mormon Cat Lady
Today I'm blogging about why I chose that title and why I proudly declare my babies have fur and four legs.
I'm infertile but also child free by choice.
I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Post Traumatic Psychosis so there is no way I can have kids and not ruin their lives.
There is also the fact that I despise small children. I hate how they get underfoot. I hate how they constantly monopolize the attention. I hate how they shriek through meetings. I hate how they interrupt. I hate their shrieky little voices.
Go ahead and be offended. I don't care.
My cats are a true comfort to me! Bartholomew always knows when I need to be comforted. Bart is ten years old, brown tabby with long fur who looks big until you get him wet and realize this cat is all hair and eyes! Bartholomew is more comfort to me than ten sons-he knows when I need to cry and is all in my arms licking tears off my face and mewling sympathetically.
When I was undergoing chemotherapy Bart would lie next to me in bed all day. When sweat and tears mingled on my face he would frantically lick my face, grunting and mewing in sympathy, lying in my arms and sometimes staring into the shadows and growling at the gathering darkness.
Clare is my sweet girl who is a normal size. I used to call her "Little Clare" until the vet told me that my cats are giants and she is normal, so she is now called "Normal Clare."
Rhys is my big, buff guy who thinks he's my husband. He sleeps on the same bed as me, massages me to sleep, and fusses to wake me. This cat is INSOLENT! I mean, he'll start swatting me with his paws until I wake enough to yell at him to leave me alone and he just looks at me like, "If you're awake enough to be annoyed, you're awake enough to feed me."
Rhys is also the cat who was an answer to my prayers. For years when I watched cats do the making bread thing I wished that I had one that would knead his or her little paws on my back. Rhys always knows when I need a "kitty massage", whether on my back or my legs.
I rescue kittens in this life. I'm not unhappy with my lot in life. I'd rather recline in my arm chair with my cats on my lap or curled at my feet than run around after kids all day. Don't waste any pity on me.
I don't miss out on the joy of motherhood and I am a mother to my cats who are more joy to me than a bunch of screaming kids getting under my feet and in my hair.
I am a single woman so I can dedicate my life to pleasing the Lord, unlike the married women who have to dedicate their lives to pleasing their husbands.
I have to try to move past my anger and resentment of people who don't understand that I love my nine cats every bit as much as they love their kids. I've been kicked out of Facebook LDS groups for declaring my love for my fur children is just as real and eternal as any other mother. Having my cats helps me to keep things in perspective, to put them ahead of me and to know when to put myself ahead of them. After all, we can never be fully healthy or whole without that balance of knowing when to say "Me first" and knowing when to say "Others first."
I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Post Traumatic Psychosis so there is no way I can have kids and not ruin their lives.
There is also the fact that I despise small children. I hate how they get underfoot. I hate how they constantly monopolize the attention. I hate how they shriek through meetings. I hate how they interrupt. I hate their shrieky little voices.
Go ahead and be offended. I don't care.
My cats are a true comfort to me! Bartholomew always knows when I need to be comforted. Bart is ten years old, brown tabby with long fur who looks big until you get him wet and realize this cat is all hair and eyes! Bartholomew is more comfort to me than ten sons-he knows when I need to cry and is all in my arms licking tears off my face and mewling sympathetically.
When I was undergoing chemotherapy Bart would lie next to me in bed all day. When sweat and tears mingled on my face he would frantically lick my face, grunting and mewing in sympathy, lying in my arms and sometimes staring into the shadows and growling at the gathering darkness.
Clare is my sweet girl who is a normal size. I used to call her "Little Clare" until the vet told me that my cats are giants and she is normal, so she is now called "Normal Clare."
Rhys is my big, buff guy who thinks he's my husband. He sleeps on the same bed as me, massages me to sleep, and fusses to wake me. This cat is INSOLENT! I mean, he'll start swatting me with his paws until I wake enough to yell at him to leave me alone and he just looks at me like, "If you're awake enough to be annoyed, you're awake enough to feed me."
Rhys is also the cat who was an answer to my prayers. For years when I watched cats do the making bread thing I wished that I had one that would knead his or her little paws on my back. Rhys always knows when I need a "kitty massage", whether on my back or my legs.
I rescue kittens in this life. I'm not unhappy with my lot in life. I'd rather recline in my arm chair with my cats on my lap or curled at my feet than run around after kids all day. Don't waste any pity on me.
I don't miss out on the joy of motherhood and I am a mother to my cats who are more joy to me than a bunch of screaming kids getting under my feet and in my hair.
I am a single woman so I can dedicate my life to pleasing the Lord, unlike the married women who have to dedicate their lives to pleasing their husbands.
I have to try to move past my anger and resentment of people who don't understand that I love my nine cats every bit as much as they love their kids. I've been kicked out of Facebook LDS groups for declaring my love for my fur children is just as real and eternal as any other mother. Having my cats helps me to keep things in perspective, to put them ahead of me and to know when to put myself ahead of them. After all, we can never be fully healthy or whole without that balance of knowing when to say "Me first" and knowing when to say "Others first."
