Eighteen days ago my world turned upside down. I figured it would be no big deal to bring tiny kittens into my house and foster them. I’d feed them, clean their litter box, give them fresh water and continue on with my life as normal. No big deal.
Wrong.
Three dead kittens later, eye drops, antibiotics, steam showers, and subcutaneous fluids have eaten up every spare moment I have and several spare moments that I don’t have. What the heck was I thinking? The care of these kittens has not just drained my energy, it has drained my soul, and this is a problem.
It’s a problem because tomorrow is the day. It’s the day I have planned for eight weeks. The day to break open my novel and read it for the first time. I should be excited and jittery, but I’m exhausted. My wonder has gone the way of dead kittens, and that is not a happy place.
Do I seize the time I’ve carved for myself and read? Do I wait for the next free moment, even if it means waiting until November?
Fostering was supposed to be fun and a great life experience. Who knew these tiny cats were so fragile? I haven’t felt this raw since the pediatrician uttered the words “failure to thrive” over my tiny daughter’s body. I was not a good mother to a newborn human. I am not a good mother to cat newborns either. They consume every ounce of me, these tiny new beings. I give more than I have and then I give more.
Tomorrow. Do I read? Do I not? This too is supposed to be fun. The anticipation of the first read. The triumph or the tragedy when the last page is turned.
What to do….
Afthead 