“I wish Romeo could have kittens,” my seven-year-old daughter laments.  I know, you’re thinking Romeo can’t have kittens because Romeo is a male cat. That’s what we thought, too, when we adopted the gray striped kitten from the animal shelter. Since he was so affectionate, we named him Romeo. Then at our first trip to the vet to discuss getting the cat fixed, we learned that he was really a she. By then, I thought it might confuse the kitten to change its name. Either way, Romeo will never have kittens.

Now ten years old, the cat spends most of her day napping under the bed or shedding in my favorite chair. So it makes sense that my daughter wants a cute, playful kitten.

“I like kittens, too,” I say. “But they grow up so fast.” Kind of like kids—only faster. Plus I explain it would be twice the litter to scoop and twice the hairballs to clean. Like all starry-eyed children, my daughter offers to do all of the work. I do not fall for these empty promises. So she gets out a piece of paper and writes “Dear Santa.” She looks up at me, “Mom, how do you spell ‘real kitten’?”

Uh-oh. Will this be the year Santa disappoints her? Maybe another kitten wouldn’t be much more trouble. But then I remember. We’ve been a two-cat household before. We had a crazy calico that used to bite for no reason. I cried when I realized she couldn’t stay once we had a baby. Then my husband fed a starving stray on our back porch. We refused to name the black feline, calling her simply Kitty-kitty. Eventually I caved and took her to the vet for her vaccinations. I resented the hassle of feeding two cats—one inside and one outside. Then one day Kitty-kitty howled and started acting strange. I had no idea she’d soon die in our backyard. I cried and cried. Why hadn’t I realized something was terribly wrong?

That’s the thing about pets. You love them, but eventually they make you cry. Maybe it’s not just the hassle I want to avoid, but also the heartache. All of these memories make me realize I should appreciate what I have. Suddenly I wonder where Romeo is hiding so I can scratch behind her ears. I just love it when she purrs. . . .

(Please do not take this as an invitation to drop off any kittens on my doorstep!)

If you enjoy a story that warms you like the love of a good pet, you’ll appreciate On the Verge, where a husband’s head injury leads him to bring home a puppy and buy a house without talking to his new wife. Available on Amazon for $2.99.


For a chance to win an autographed copy of What Happiness Looks Like, click here.


CAST YOUR VOTE: Are two cats better than one?

As a child, I rolled my eyes whenever my mother tried to start a new family tradition. One year she decided my brother and I should regularly plan and cook dinner. Every week I opened a can of beef chow mein and on his night, my brother stunk up the house by frying liver and onions. I’m not sure how long the monotony lasted before my mom demoted us back to our original roles as her sous chefs.

            Another time she tried to teach us daily French lessons since she and my dad had once lived in France. I remember my obsession and confusion over the fact that every word was designated as either masculine or feminine. I couldn’t let it go. But why does a pencil need to have a gender? I think the French classes ended even more quickly than the cooking experiment. To this day, all I remember is that la montre means watch. (And I had to look up just now whether it was masculine or feminine.)

            Ironically, now that I have a child of my own, I feel compelled to start my own traditions. Several months ago, I thought it would be serene if my daughter ended each day by listing some of the things for which she was grateful. At the age of four, the idea of gratitude was a bit difficult, but after following my lead, she started to grasp it. My list included both big picture items like our good health and small moments like dancing together to the ‘80’s Greatest Hits in the living room. Her list seemed to branch out to include me and anything else she could spot from her bed: the lamp, a chair, a scrap of paper, and of course, her toys. Her “thankfuls” could go on and on in what seemed like an attempt to delay bedtime. At some point, after supervising the go potty--brush your teeth--put on pj’s--read a story routine, I stopped asking, “What are you thankful for?” And I regret it; I’d hoped that if she formed the habit of making a mental gratitude journal, then she would be a happier person.

            That’s the trick, I think, to creating traditions. You need to believe they will truly enhance your family’s life, you need to cling to them in the face of resistance, and you need to start early—before your kids know how to roll their eyes, if possible.

            I realize now that my daughter had a valid point. I should be thankful for everything that surrounds me as I lay in bed at night—the electricity that powers the lights and heat, the dust on the table, the toys that bring my child joy, my husband and my daughter. Because these things combine to make this house my home. Perhaps occasionally following my daughter’s lead should also be a new tradition. 

YOUR TURN TO COMMENT: What's your favorite (or least favorite) family tradition?