Shave the Cat

I've been asked how I can find humor during moments of vomit, screaming, hitting, questioning, crying and the complicated rules of Pokemon. And my only answer to that is I have shaved my cat. And as I type that, I realize that "shave my cat" could have two meanings. You people are disgusting. I'm talking about my Maine Coon cat Petey. Ironically, this is a serious blog about being lighthearted.

Nine years ago almost to the week, Pete and I were pregnant. It was a surprise to both of us and being stubborn and not open to change, I was not the happiest initially. I was training for a marathon and about to start a graduate degree while working. It took a few weeks and some shopping for cute maternity clothes and I finally decided that I was pretty excited for this baby. And it was then that we lost it.

Miscarriage happens all the time but that doesn't make things any better for those of us who have gone through it. I was very healthy, fit and young. And for some reason my body betrayed me. Learning we were having a miscarriage is still to this day my saddest memory. It was one of those defining moments that completely changes who you are as a person. Finding your husband crying in the garage for what we lost so he could be strong for me is crippling. And you don't want to admit having such sorrow for someone you never met. But perfect dreams are perfect and losing them is losing what could have been perfect, unblemished by sleepless nights and temper tantrums. That week I developed a bottomless pit of sadness that is still there. Because of baby #1, I have more compassion and empathy. I "get" despair. And I know it gets better.

The day after we learned we were losing our baby, Petey the Cat was scheduled for grooming. Well, because I am a "strong" person who felt she shouldn't be affected by a miscarriage, I kept that appointment. Because life goes on damn it and cats need to be brushed. And I'm so glad I kept that appointment as it shapes my attitude every day.

We dropped Petey off at Groomingdales (yes, that was the real name) and drove aimlessly around town waiting to pick him up. After an hour or so, we picked Petey up, already in his cage. I saw his little poofy face and thought he looked great. Then I got a better glimpse. My Maine Coon cat, a 18-pound furry bowling ball, was shaved bald, except for his head, feet and the top of his tail.

I sputtered, "You shaved my cat!"
Groomingdales person, "I know! Isn't it great?!"
I was speechless. Actually, I wanted to say, "What the fuck!? You shaved my fucking cat!? Who the fuck does that? He looks like a fucking moron!?" But speechless was probably a better option right then. I PAID $45 for this hack job and took my ridiculous looking cat home.

I sat on my couch and waves of sadness washed over me again as the shock of my stupid looking cat wore off. I started to cry...again. But then I looked at my cat. And he still looked ridiculous. But this time it was kind of funny. And I actually started to laugh. What is so important here is that I didn't think I'd laugh again. I realized then that the dark pit would always be there, but life would still have funny moments - I would just have to look harder for them sometimes.

So when I hear about really crappy things happening to people and I'm searching for a piece of advice for them, I always fall back to "Shave the cat." I know it doesn't make a ton of sense. Unless you have a cat. And in that case, I've got the name of a cat groomer for you. They are excellent. And there is nothing better than a huge cat with a lion cut.

The Scream

When Munch painted The Scream, he said the inspiration came from how he could hear nature screaming through the sky. And to that I say, "No Sir, you are a liar." Clearly Munch was a parent who couldn't get his child to sleep at night. I'm pretty sure I have looked like The Scream on a few occasions, thanks to my sweet littlest son.

Eight years ago when I had the Moose, my pediatrician recommended finding my "mad voice" so my son would know when I was serious when he was in trouble. I tried over the years to find this voice, practicing with different lower tones and volumes. Each time it was pathetic and Peter would grin, shake his head and say "No wonder he doesn't take you seriously." Fortunately the Moose didn't require much discipline. Unfortunately, it didn't give me much practice for his slightly more challenging little brother.

Since having the Rock, I have managed to find my Scream on two occasions. Once he swept his bowl of soup off the table, like in a bad dramatic movie, sending soup flying across the room. A voice came out of me that I can only describe as a rabid bear. I think I actually saw the bear come out of my mouth - at that moment I was having an out-of-body experience. Let's just say that Rocco understood that yes, sending your soup bowl sailing against the wall, is "not a good choice."

Now we have bedtime issues. When I say "we", I mean me. The Rock goes to sleep great for his dad. But when Mom puts him to bed, he is willing to scream my name for an hour straight until he 1) pukes or 2) I give up. One night while Pete was out, after hearing my name screamed for 40 minutes in a way that would suggest my little angel was in impending danger, I bounded upstairs only to hear, "Hi Mom. Where is my giraffee?" Again I retreated downstairs, only to have the screams start up again. Upstairs again to "I need a dwink." The next time he needed a pickle. Another 20 minutes of hearing my name screamed at the top of his lungs and I had had enough. I stomped up the stairs and enter the room with The Scream that said under no uncertain terms was it bedtime and that this crap was stopping NOW. And then the real crying began. Which made me feel like shit. Scooping up the Rock, I kissed him, apologized for yelling and told him that he still needed to go to bed. And then it was quiet.

I retreated downstairs and felt like the World's Worst Mom. I had found my "mad voice" and it didn't feel too awesome to use. Therapeutic, but the hangover sucked. The next morning, the Rock, with his mature ability to make me feel bad intentionally, told me "don't scweam at me." I told him we'd make a deal that I wouldn't scream at him if he wouldn't scream at me. Making a deal with a toddler is like trusting a thief with your housekeys - fruitless. I drove to work thinking about how I had totally failed as a parent. I have so many patient friends that never raise their voices at their kids.

And then I had an epiphany. Yes, I have amazing friends that make my parenting skills look like a bad episode of COPS. But there are also a lot of super sucky parents out there that scream at their children as the only form of communication they use, that beat their children and withhold love. And compared to the lowest standard I can think of, I felt okay. Because that night my patience had broke and yes, I yelled at Rock, but I also kept my head and my control. We've never hit our children for any reason and one really bad night at home didn't push me over the edge. And I thought maybe I should just give myself a little credit for the fact that I have a child that knowingly pushes my buttons and that ALL I did was yell.

All of us have crappy parenting moments, especially when we compare ourselves to the perfect parents out there. Maybe sometimes we should compare ourselves to a slightly lower standard, just so we can have enough of a confidence boost to make it through another day. Or night as it is my case.

So I'm not perfect, but after eight years, I did finally find that voice that a DOCTOR told me to channel. And on that note, I'm ending with a quote from one of the best books written lately, "baby, just go the fuck to sleep."