I learned about motherhood from my cats.

I mentioned last week that I’ve started reading “Mothering Without a Map”. It’s been very interesting, and hard for me to read without putting it down to sit and think on it before picking it up again. Clearly, I have mother issues, lol. (I guess most of us do!)

Having been raised by my father, a construction worker single dad of two, my “roadmap” for motherhood was a bit confusing. I had gleaned many mothering techniques from mother “figures” in my life, even purposefully studying them from a very young age- learning how they packed a lunch, kissed goodnight, or cleaned the bathroom. But I never saw a mother of an infant, never saw a woman give birth or nurse. Can you believe it? 100 years ago that was probably so commonplace. Nowadays, many woman, maybe most, in America have never seen these things.

Except that I almost always had a cat who had kittens. I remember well the hour I spent stroking my cat while she labored through increasingly intense surges until she at last pushed out 5 little amniotic sacs of kittens. She was in “labor land”- faraway and focused — just like I was in my labors. She had them and immediately began to build the bond of touch; licking … nursing … purring. As the kittens grew, she continued to allow them free reign of her poor 8 nipples, ravaged by their little kitty claws kneading feverishly at them for milk. She played with them, but not too much, as she also had to take the time to take care of herself. She had to stand up and leave them “mewing” at her while she got food, drink, or a potty break. If one got out of hand, she wasn’t timid about giving them a little growl to keep them in line, either.

Thus, I learned most about mothering small children from my cat.

Then I had a baby. Ethan turned my world around. We had such a hard time breastfeeding that I came to really value nursing more than I had expected. I longed to nurse and hold my baby, not pump while I watched longingly as some one else gave him a bottle. In those first few weeks, some well-meaning friends gave me the advice that they swore worked miracles for their sister: schedule, schedule, schedule… and above all, let him CRY IT OUT. As they were talking, a knot formed in my stomach and I’ll never forget my thought… “That sounds so… so… unnatural!”

I proceeded to mother my little one on instinct as much as I could. I held him all the time, usually in a baby carrier. I couldn’t go back to work outside the home (when he was 8 weeks old, I tried one day a week working next door to him in a church daycare and I couldn’t handle hearing him cry and not being able to comfort him!) So I started working for myself, first with in-home childcare and later began freelance copywriting which turned into my current job as a virtual assistant. I co-slept with him until he was 9 months. Once we were nursing normally, he never accepted a bottle again- nor a pacifier, or even a sippy cup! I nursed on demand –rather than schedule– until he was 18 months (and grieved giving up our night feedings, let me tell you!) I didn’t spend a night away from him until he was weaned and I cried when I had to (I went out of town for work). The bond I had with Ethan was so strong, he was my little buddy, and I didn’t want to miss the fun, even the challenges, of watching him grow and learn new things each day. This has a lot to do with my desire to homeschool/unschool Ethan and Verity as well (OH, and more on that to come very soon! So exciting!)

It occurs to me now that much of what I did was leaning into the “attachment theory” way of parenting, a theory I now subscribe to and intentionally ALLOW myself to do with Verity. With Ethan, the connection was so strong, and the period of time when he experienced separation anxiety when I left him in sunday school or something was hard on us. But I tried to trust my, again, instincts, that he would be able to stay without me when he was developmentally ready to do so. Then one day, he was. He understood the concept of “coming back” and he flourished into a very independent, confident, and highly (overly? lol) social preschooler. Looking back, I don’t regret the times I held him “too” closely for modern, American standards. We have been able to establish an intimacy that I never had with any mother figures in my life, a gift I longed to give him since I ever dared to think of myself as someday being a… GULP… mother.

Now, there are all kinds of ways to mother, I know that. I have dear, dear friends who love their kids endlessly, who have very well adjusted little buggers, and did NOT “attachment parent”. This post is NOT about the way I did it being “right” or the only way. It’s about a young woman who had no roadmap and found attachment parenting, or what I might just call mothering instinct in my case, a saving grace — both to myself and to my child(ren).

So, a deep thank you to the flea infested, broken hipped cat named Faith, who taught me the very basics of being a devoted mommy (So sorry I had to bring you to the humane society when I left for college!)