Suddenly Teens: Critters
From central command, our the sun porch, the cats lorded over our neighborhood dogs, pursued mosquitoes through the holes, which those furballs ripped in our screens, and rebuked the local squirrels. In a word, these seeming innocents were impossible beasties who sought to retain mastery over our home. They were ignorant of the fact that their could be one master; only the Mama could rule.
I was not and am not among those persons, whom have lost sight of the degree of senselessness of certain “sacrifices” or whom have forgotten how inane it is to yield valuable resources to would-be wooly sovereigns. Daily, and thrice on Wednesdays, when those familial furries stipulated that I release them to the great outside, I responded according to my disposition. I’m okay with putting my family before my profession, but am not keen on making my service to critters foremost on my schedule.
Those thugs wanted my complete awareness, especially my physical prowesses. They were all mews and news, entirely intent upon using all of the cunning contained in their warm, furry vibrations to draw away my attention, until I opened the back door or granted them access to a can of miserable pet food.
I know many folk who can verify that for long years those varmints were unreasonably demanding. My former babysitter, for instance, rallies with me on this point. Years earlier, she’d had to hold onto one or more of those felines long enough to make sure it didn’t mark territory in Older Dude’s bedroom. Likewise, my dishwasher repair man is on my side. He has scars from the “pretty kitty” who deigned to jump on him from behind our livingroom wicker chair. Our domesticated brutes were not universally loved.
In balance, there exists documented scientific evidence that cats can favorably impact humans in ways chemical, biological, and physiological. The softness of their coats has inspired ballads, the rhythm of their purrs has placated warring generals, and the rationalizations, for maintaining interpersonal obsessions, which can only spring from the emotional cost of caring for cats, have been useful.
However, all of their merit does not and did not enhance my willingness to kowtow to their bossiness. Negotiated communication requires give and take. With cats, it’s just take, take, take.
I became liberated upon discovering that I could refuse to be their concierge. I did not have to chauffeur them through doorways, keep the toilet lid up for them or scratch their bellies when I’d rather be sleeping. I learned to refuse to engage those fuzzies in even five minutes of talk about importing expensive play equipment; socks stuffed with dried catnip, crinkled papers, pipe cleaners and what-have-you would have to suffice for their entertainment. What’s more, I elected to champion the house plants over the nibblers and vetoed the cats’ requests that I purchase exotic treats.
It was no longer beyond my ken to repeatedly threaten to morph the youngest in our clowder into a pair of mittens or to warn about the retribution that would come if another of my family’s furries continued to perch on Missy Younger’s pillow.
In truth, that tom was not half as problematic as was the mangy queen that resided on Older Dude’s bed.
The latter cat, when not otherwise disturbing all of my child’s loose accoutrements hung off furniture in a worrisome manner that was almost as annoying as was the way in which our kitten suspended itself, vulture-like, on the ledge over my office door. That tiny terror was as culpable of destroying appurtenances as was the next door neighbor’s kid (the one who had no compunction about playing hide and seek in our clothing closets when stricken with lice and who had no compunction about leaning into our refrigerator and coughing when harboring a virus).
Despite, and perhaps because of, their degree of troublesomeness, our cats eventually used up their nine lives. By the time our kids became teens, we had stopped replacing our hairy companions.
The teens, though, are still coloring our family’s experiences with peskiness. Like that of the furries purries, my teens’ behavior ordinarily requires a response consisting of reinforced boundaries.
Whereas I wish I could feel as reassured about my parenting skills, and as comforted by my interactions with my children, as I did when I was literally and figuratively feeding my nurslings part of me, such is not supposed to be the case in raising adolescents. While there were no dictators-in-the making, no attempted coups, when my sons and daughters were small, there were also no offspring working on differentiating themselves from their primary care provider and hence there was none of a recently enjoyed thrill for me. Specifically, I appreciate being able to witness my teens figuring out their identities.
All things considered, I have to remain calm, for instance, when my children, who had asked me to help them improve their study skills, choose not to dislodge their Ipods or to swear off their email. Rather than implementing the time management, organization, or review practices I suggest, these guys and gals merely turn up the volume on their complaints when they receive additional unsatisfactory grades. I ignore them.
Similarly, when my offspring insist that it’s not suitable for their middle-aged mom to write or to teach and to critique across genres or when they explicitly clamor for my attending to their whining as lovingly as I attend to my manuscripts, I just smile and nod.
I endeavor to walk mindfully through this portion of life, all the while seeking that portion of sanity that will restore me to some semblance of mental order. In practice, that means, more often than not, I answer my teens’ requests with a pained expression. I no longer worry whether or not I am regarded, by pets or little ones as this side of crazy.
It still takes superhuman effort not to squirm when the kids ask me: how’re we going to celebrate some occasion or another, when we’re finally going to arrive at a turnpike exit, or why they have to unload the dishwasher. Akin to their former fuzzy siblings, my children work hard at maneuvering me.
After all, no one takes care of Mama if Mama doesn’t take care of herself. I remain humble, but not apologetic and above all, I stick (well, sort of) to my limits.
