I was gone from home a long time yesterday. I had a doctor's appointment then I met a friend for lunch. After that I had to pick up Rooney's food at one location, then Jack's at another. People food came next. At each of those places, being the recluse I am, catching up with friends took some time.
I didn't get back to the house until it was nearly suppertime. Add to that, there had been a thunderstorm which seems to discombobulate everyone these days. I was a nervous wreck; imagining coming home to a disaster. I had visions of Jack breaking down a door and releasing the cats to the great unknown. At the least, I figured he opened the locked bedroom door releasing the cats to mayhem.
So, when I got home, I took a deep breath and gingerly opened the door. I held that breath and walked in slowly, with one eye open. I saw Jack first; looking at me over his (intact) gate, wagging his tail. The doors around him were still closed. Then, Fancy came to greet me. Well, his usual greetings go something like this, "Hey! You're finally home. What did you bring me? Is it in this bag? Maybe this one? Do not tell me you've been gone this long and you haven't brought home anything good for me?" I assured him I had but he needed to be a little patient.
My next stop was to release Dash from his pen. This enclosure is the greatest thing ever invented. It is completely screened with enough room for him to have food and water, a bed, toys and a litter box. He is safe in there from Jack and from his own curiosity. But he is always happy to get out and get back to ruling his kingdom. Funny, little guy. After checking on the other cats - all sound asleep - then getting Rooney out of her kennel, I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. All was well.
Mom Guilt. My kids are grown but I can't escape it. I've just transferred it to my four-legged kids. How did this happen and how do I escape its grip? I think it has to do with the way people of my generation (born in the 1950's) were raised. Females were taught to be "good girls" who took care of things and never complained; males were raised to be responsible.
Our parents were the so-called, Greatest Generation. They survived the Depression and WWII, and had their fill of grief and woes. They were ready to claim the Great American Dream. A sense of entitlement was there, while a guilty conscience, well, (pfft) that was put on the back burner. I mean, what did they have to feel guilty about?
So, they sort of transferred any guilt to their offspring. People of my generation are so guilt ridden, we should have it stamped on our foreheads. Oh, sure, some of us rebelled as teenagers and tried to be the polar opposite of our parents. But eventually that enormous rubber band of guilt snapped us back to the deeply ingrained sense of responsibility. Few of us escaped it.
I fuss and worry all day if my babies are hungry (they are all obese) or thirsty (water bowls always full) or hot (have two fans blowing on Roxy) or cold (draped a blanket over Dash's crib so he doesn't get a draft from the a/c.) It's exhausting. Some might call this being "responsible." I call it bat-shit crazy.
However, I seem to do it well. Therefore, I am releasing the guilt attached to being overly-caring and just accept it as my fate. I can't imagine being the opposite: self-serving, thoughtless and cavalier. Come to think of it, maybe my parents did me a favor.
No comments:
Post a Comment