I wonder if parenthood is an exercise against futility. I’m feeling a lot of that these days, and I found myself wondering that late last night.
I’m struggling because yesterday I gave up my beloved baby cat Gypsy. She went to live with my brother Mark. This will be the best thing for all of us, I think – I will be without the stress of trying to clean up after her accidents all the time, Mark gets a cat that he absolutely adores, and Gypsy gets a good home that isn’t the Humane Society – but it was still horridly hard. She was so sweet last night – and cute and good. It broke my heart to give her up, but I know it was the right thing.
And I’m worrying about my other cat because this is the first time he’s been alone. He’s managing just fine so far by pestering the hell out of me, and in the middle of the night we had to have a talk about not launching himself off my side after the catnip mousie. In fact, there will be no launching off me period. But before the launching he was sad and snuggly, and I hope he’ll be OK.
And – I don’t know. My friends are struggling, and I can’t help. My cat is lonely, and I have to work. The boy that I love is far away and having a hard time, and I can do nothing but wait for him to need me, and hope he knows I’m here for him. I just feel like my hands are tied.