While I was in Washington DC for the March for our Lives, this happened. Our foster cat had her babies. No matter that I’d spent the past week sleeping on an air mattress in her little room. This was her time, and it was going to come whether it was on my watch, or my reluctant anxious husband’s.
She delivered six healthy jet-black panther babies, a wiggling pile of midnight silkies. My husband and the older kids were the doulas, making sure each one was attended to by the mom, then weighing them and documenting their growth through the weekend.
When I came home, these new experts in feline midwifery introduced me to the kittens and schooled me in what’s best done around the protective mom.
Another reminder that when I step back they can step up, and it makes them that much more invested in the outcome.
That said, it’s a lot easier to be invested in newborn bleating kittens than invested in a load of laundry they’re supposed to deliver from the dryer to the folded piles.