We had talked about the shelter as a possible eventuality—if we weren’t able to find homes for the kittens (we already had four cats, so keeping any kittens was out of the question) —but didn’t really have a plan as to when. We figured we’d know when it was time.

So, this weekend, old friends (one allergic to cats) were coming from Iowa to visit, due to arrive Sunday night. After cleaning in preparation for them most of the day Saturday, Tim and I awoke Sunday morning to discover kitty poop on our bed, the couch, a few spots on the floor. . . washing machine not working . . . toilet clogged.  . .  kittens underfoot and hanging from the curtains.

It was time.

We took the kittens to the shelter, crying all the way. Me, I mean. Feeling very sad. And very guilty.

The guilt felt familiar. Similar to how I felt almost 20 years ago when I admitted that I really wanted to quit breastfeeding—even though Reeve was not yet a year old. Guilty and selfish and sad—but aware of my limitations. I was tired and wanted my body back. I wanted my autonomy back. I didn’t know anybody else breastfeeding a toddler. I felt I could not continue. (Had I known then what I know now about the additional benefits babies—and mothers—gain from extended breastfeeding, perhaps things would’ve been different.)

When I started at Mothering six years ago, I was working with Peggy on a new look for the magazine, and we were talking about changing the tagline which runs under the logo. I suggested “Your guide to natural family living.” She said, no, we don’t want to guide parents: “We want to make information available so that they can learn to trust  their instincts where their children are concerned— after having armed themselves with information.”

I love this. This philosophy suggests that we ought to be respectful of thinking parents who are trying to do what they can to raise their children the very best way they can—even if their choices might be different from our own. While, yes, we aim to, say, give birth naturally or breastfeed for two years, these might not be goals we are capable of meeting, for reasons beyond our control, and we have to assess, adjust, and change course. We do what we can, understanding that we’ve tried to do our idealistic best in a real-world situation.

Tim and I couldn’t keep the kittens any longer. It would have been wonderful to have held on to them longer or to have been able to place them with people we know, but it didn’t happen that way. We took in their mom when she showed up at our back door, fed and sheltered her, provided a place for her to give birth, then nurtured her kittens for eight delightful, fulfilling weeks. We did what we could, and that has to be OK.

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Photo of three of the five kittens, enjoying Sunday’s sunshine from the vantage point of our front window

Big day today

The sheer excitement of the great wide open expanses of the bed in our front room seemed to exact a toll on kitten curiosity and energy. All five were soon shivering and hunkering, so back they went to Mom for warmth and reassurance.

And a cat nap.

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College boy Reeve

It’s wonderful to see him, or, more accurately, to hug him. In this day and age of Skype and email and Facebook and cell phones, we’re usually in pretty close touch. But electronic communication, though immediate, and definitely a good thing, is no substitute for everyday interaction, lovely moments of low-key hangout time, and the very real physical presence of our child.

So why do they call it being in touch? . . .

Since Reeve’s room has been converted into the nursery (When mama cat Twombly, gave birth under his bed—a convenient choice, since, other than the bathroom, Reeve’s room is the only one in the house with a door—we sealed the room off to keep the other feline residents out until the kittens are bigger.), Reeve is sleeping on the fold-out futon couch in the main room where Tim and I sleep, on another fold-out futon couch. (There’s just 10 feet and a book case between the two couches, so it occurs to me this is kind of like a grownup variation on cosleeping.)

Anyway, this morning, I awoke to hear Brutus (our 2-year-old tabby), meowing adamantly / persistenly, and Reeve mumbling, “Brutus. No.” and “Don’t poke me!” and then, “What is it, boy? What’s that? . . . Someone’s stuck in a well!? . . .”

You can’t get that on Facebook.

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Top photo: the spare bed/couch/futon in our front room.

Above: Can’t believe I have now actually referenced Lassie twice in this blog . . .

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That’s kind of the feeling around here since Friday night, when Twombly, the feral kitten who came in the back door in June, gave birth to five kittens in the quiet dusty dark beneath Reeve’s bed.

We hadn’t realized she was pregnant til last week. (Hadn’t even realized she was female til mid-January!) Because she’s still very afraid of us—except when we’re horizontal—our attempts to catch her in order to get her to the vet to get spayed were embarrassingly unsuccessful. (In retrospect, though, we now realize she was already pregnant the first time we made an appointment for her, back in early January.)

So last week Tim and I pretty much simultaneously came to the same eleventh-hour conclusion: boy, that kitty sure is FLUFFY . . . Because she’s never allowed us to pick her up, it just didn’t seem that obvious. (Seems laughable, now, our cluelessness. That large, lumpy “just went shoplifting” midsection. . .)

And then Friday night, Tim heard the squeaks of little ones.

Since Mama Kitty had chosen a chilly and near-impossible-to-reach spot (we had been advised to handle the kittens as early as possible to help with their socialization and so that Twombly doesn’t “teach” them to be feral like her) Tim and I spent a couple of hours Saturday morning crawling around under and over bed (mattress is elegantly held up by cinder blocks, so we couldn’t just move the bed—and too low to crawl very far beneath), grabbing kittens and transferring them to a nice warm towel-lined box.

And then panicking when we realized she wouldn’t go near the box, wouldn’t let us catch her to put her in the box, kept retreating to hide under the bed. We were afraid her fear of us would override her young maternal instinct, nervous that we’d screwed everything up by moving the kittens . . . That old familiar parental panic: What have I done?! I don’t know what to do!

Of course our concerns were unfounded. Of course her maternal instinct was intact. Of course. Silly us. She finally joined her babies long enough for me to take a few photos—and then moved them to a different spot under the bed when I wasn’t looking.

Cigar, anyone?

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Soon after, there’s a movement near my left arm, and it’s Twombly,* our 5-month-old kitten;  never very far behind Brutus, his perpetual sidekick.

Twombly settles in on my upper arm, purring more loudly than Brutus, leaning toward him, resting his kitten head on the bigger cat’s flank. Then the ritual begins. Brutus stretches out a front leg—reaching with his paw, claws retracted—and softly pats me on the chin. Twombly squirms up my arm to get a little closer, then reaches out his paw, claws in, and pats me on the chin, as well, his rhythmic purrs so loud I think he’ll wake Tim.

I thrill to this. Not because it’s a unique occurrence (happens almost nightly) but because not so long ago both of these cats were feral kittens who showed up at our back door, tiny and trembling and in search of food—lured, we figured, by the smell of our other cats. Each was terrified of us, would start at the slightest movement and dart away, through the cat door and back into the seeming safety of the outdoor world.

It’s hard to remember now, but shortly after Brutus first showed up, I awoke in the early hours and saw that he was sleeping with our cats on the daybed where they congregate (a.k.a. “the kitty divan”). As I crept over to get a better look, Brutus awoke, saw me, and leapt to the floor, heading  for the door. I bent down and (not really thinking) scooped him up, wanting to reassure him, I guess. Well, 14 puncture wounds and a couple of days later, I was at the urgent care clinic with swollen purple fingers, getting shots. (Afterwards, I found online a site where an expert likened handling a feral kitten to wrestling with an animated cactus. Believe it.)

That was two years ago; Brutus is now a beloved part of our household, the most affectionate of all the cats we’ve had. And now Twombly appears to be following suit, still a little skittish when we humans are vertical, but coming along nicely, thanks to Brutus.

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*Named for Cy.

Photos were shot on my cell phone early this morning, once I managed to extricate an arm.