I'm Not Crazy, I'm a Mom.

From panic to calm

This morning was supposed to start off easy peasy. But what began as an early morning meditation quickly turned into a frantic search for the three baby kittens our cat had recently given birth to, who were now about 8 weeks old.

Something nudged me to step out of my bedroom and check on the kittens—she had kept them outside with her on the porch overnight. But to my surprise, when I came out, I found the mama cat *inside* the house.

She looked up at me as I asked, “What are you doing in here without your babies?”

I went out to the porch, fully expecting to see them curled up in the rocking chair where they usually slept. But it was empty.

The next few hours had me sending my husband and son into the thick bush to search, while I circled the perimeter of our property, calling out, scanning every corner and patch of grass.

It was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
We live in the country—there are endless places they could have hidden.
My husband and son returned sweaty, covered in stickers from the tall grass.
No sign of them.

That’s when the voices started.
"You should’ve brought them in last night. Why didn’t you check on them sooner?”
I cried.

I imagined the worst.

I felt helpless.

My husband, ever the practical one, tried to comfort me. “They’re probably just playing around somewhere,” he said. “They’ll come back.”

I know he was trying to make me feel better.

Then I had an idea. I picked up the mama cat and placed her over the stone wall where the grass was especially thick. I had a feeling they might’ve wandered there, and maybe, just maybe, we could find them together, mama to mama.

I set some food nearby on the wall and watched as she disappeared into the tall grass, her meows growing fainter and fainter.

I sat down on the lawn chair and felt that familiar lump rise in my throat—a memory surfacing.

I remembered a moment years ago, at a crowded art festival, when I lost my son. He had been standing right next to me, and in the split second it took to pay for food, he was gone.

Gone.

I have never felt a panic like that in my life, and I hope I never do again.

Time collapsed into seconds. I screamed his name, pushing through the crowd, moving people aside, desperate for him to hear me and answer back.

Just like Yoshi, our mama cat was now calling out for her babies.

And just like I did that day, I prayed.
I prayed for God to help me find what I felt was lost.
I prayed for the kittens to return to Yoshi.

I surrendered the outcome through tears.
And then, as I let go, just like the moment I finally saw my eight-year-old son standing at a hot dog vendor in the distance, I looked up and saw Yoshi.

She was back on the stone wall, calm and content.

I walked toward her, heart pounding, and looked down behind the wall.

There they were.
All three kittens.
Safe and sound.

The wave of relief that washed over me was startlingly familiar.
It wasn’t the same as finding my son, of course. Nothing compares to that.
But it touched the same part of me, the part that aches when love feels lost and overflows when it’s found again.

I held my son so tight that day, I didn’t want to let go.
And just like that, as I gathered those kittens into my arms, I didn’t want to let them go either.

My husband looked at me, relieved but slightly amused, and said with a gentle smile, kissing me on my forehead, “You’re a little crazy.”

I shook my head, smiling while still cradling the kittens, Yoshi by my side.
“I’m not crazy,” I said. “I’m a mom.

With warmth and wonder,

Sherry🦋

“Momtemplative, my publication on Substack, where I invite readers to slow down and contemplate life, from womanhood, motherhood, and everything in between. Because, let’s be honest, there’s a lot that happens in the in-between.”