You may be a calico cat raising your fourth litter.
You may be an adolescent human in a Bluey hoodie.
You may be a bachelor of eighty named Eugene Buddle-Lubbers.
No matter. If you have loved with a love stronger than yourself, you have mothered.
The Intergalactic Scale of Integrity and Strength runs from “sea slug” to “Congressperson,” all the way up to “human,” “Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson,” and, finally, “mother.” Regardless of species, you would be ill-advised to get between a mother and her children.
We have seen mother cats as sweet as pudding turn to fanged phoenixes when we reach into the nest to weigh their kittens. We have seen mother cats stretch their bellies to make room for one more when an orphan needs nurture. They give their all. They would give their lives for their kittens.
Sometimes they do.
In the dogwood days between Easter and Mother’s Day, five kittens learned the limits of life. They had been blessed with a good mother, as evidenced by their fat bellies and shining health. They were like kindergartners with ribbons in their braids and kiss prints on their cheeks. Their lunchboxes brimmed with homemade cookies and sticky notes, “Your Mama is always with you!”
We will call their mother Forsythia, though we never met her. She deserves a name. She was as brave as the first flowers of February, yellow hope breaking out against bare branches.
She would have done anything for her quintuplets. She would have raised a paw and stopped a speeding car.
Perhaps she did.
We met Forsythia’s children on the other side of the crash. Another mother, two-legged and trembling, had seen it all. She could not keep driving. She could not keep living if she didn’t do something. She did not know what to do, so love took the wheel and took control. The next thing the other mother knew, she had five bereaved kittens on her dashboard, then four. One stunned orphan spelunked below the panel and out of sight. Grief makes everyone dive.
Love can make anyone a mother.
Love is grief’s designated driver, and love got five kittens and one other mother to Tabby’s Place. Soon, mothers sprang up like dandelions. Our staff moved like one Great Mother with many thrumming hearts. Our volunteers made way for mothering by mopping, and signing for the UPS man, and turning over the laundry, and keeping Tabby’s Place upright. Our donors and friends mothered without even knowing it, giving and praying and leaning across the distance with love that knows no distance.
Love mothered Surprise, the torbie tot with serious eyes and an orange smudge on her cheek, like one last kiss from her mother before getting on the school bus. We kissed her with new kisses that cannot heal, only honor, the old.
Love mothered Googly, a tuxedoed wallflower with finger-in-the-socket hair. He looked shocked. We assured him that everyone honest is shocked most of the time.
Love mothered Moogly (pictured at top), a trembling tartlet of nutmeg and cloves. He gazed around the room, eyes asking if the sweetness was gone. Love is the “yes” that assured him, “no, never.”
Love mothered Voila, the tiniest tabby. She had seen the inside of a car’s dashboard. She had seen the inside of grief. She studied at her own reflection in our eyes.
Love mothered Tada, whose grief flowed angry as lava. He learned that fury is safe with love. He learned that Tabby’s Place’s many mothers will comfort every child.
We are speaking of a mystery I scarcely understand. Forsythia was the kittens’ mother, of course. The rescuer and the staff and the Tabby’s Place family may or may not be mothers, as formally defined. We are a wild and unruly brood, and we have nests on every check box of the technical motherhood survey. Some of us have five children who all have our eyes and nose. Some of us have twelve children with forty-eight total legs. Some of us will not pass on DNA or the recipe for Meemaw’s Meat Loaf.
None of our arms are empty.
Forsythia was the kittens’ mother, but no one who is loved can ever be an orphan. No one who loves can escape motherhood.
The moment you become large enough to let someone small call your shots, you are a mother. The hour your heart outgrows yourself, you are a mother. The day you raise your hand to stop a speeding car, a speeding fear, or your own agenda for someone else, you are a mother.
This Mother’s Day, five kittens get to forget that they were ever orphans. I would like to believe that they remember Forsythia, but I don’t think she would worry about this herself. It would be enough for her that her munchkins are richly mothered.
None of us is strong enough to be a mother. Love is stronger than we are, and we become enough.
There is hope for every orphan.
Happy Mother’s Day, kittens.