Saturday, July 2, 2011

7/2/2011 - mother-of-the-year. . .

You know how people say that no matter how valiantly you fight it, inevitably, you will become your parents?  Going on this logic, then, I always thought that I would inherently be a good dad, if only because of how well my parents took care of me.

My mom especially would break out her mother-of-the-year performances when I got sick, which happened often enough.  From the initial onset of symptoms, it would be like I had somehow been transported to a virtual one-patient ICU.  Hourly, my mom would feel my forehead for a fever, take my temperature for confirmation, bring me glasses of water and homemade chicken broth.  Even at night, she would come to my room with cups of both and a roll of saltine crackers.

In fact, to this day, when I come down with a fever, I still sometimes smell the phantom wafts of chicken broth in the air, wake up halfway to the morning and wonder where my crackers are hiding.

But it turns out that I did not inherit this streak of parental care.  Grr is sick.  It started with a little bit of sniffling in the mornings, but has since developed into a mild case of an upper respiratory infection.  And of course, upon hearing this diagnosis, I immediately thought of Sookie, the first pet Sam and I had adopted.

And yet I balked when Sam initially suggested that we take Grr to see the vet, like I didn't want to admit that he could be as sick as to warrant medical intervention.  It didn't help that while Grr was sneezing and uncomfortable in the night, I (mostly) slept right through it while Sam sat up to rub his ears and whisper things to him.  Sam drove him to the vet yesterday morning while I sat in my cubicle at work, not even considering the possibility that Grr might need a vet.  Sam is, in fact, downstairs right now, periodically wiping Grr's nose while I sit in the closet, practicing songs for my upcoming a cappella concert and finishing this blog entry.

So I am not my parents, and not as good of one as I expected myself to be.  What do I do, then, when I can't find in me the loving qualities that are needed to care for an ailing pet?

Love someone else who can.

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