Category: Motherhood

Coffee, Oh Coffee….

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I’m a coffee drinker. I love it. I really do. I love everything about it, from the warm, dark color of the beans, to the incredible fragrance of the brew, to the smooth, warming taste. The smell of coffee percolating makes me smile and feel relaxed. It’s the scent of home and comfort. I suppose that’s why coffee shops are so popular. They become homes away from home, all because of the magic of coffee. Coffee has saved me so many times as a parent when I needed that little pick-me-up to keep me going so I could stay present for my kids. It’s not an overstatement to say coffee really is a lifesaver in my world.

So then, why do people love to hate on coffee? They suggest other “healthier alternatives” to coffee, and often state with pride that they “don’t drink coffee” like it’s a badge of honor. Hmmm. But why is coffee bad? And I’m talking coffee – pure coffee – not soda or Red Bull or those questionable caffeine-infused energy drinks. Coffee, pure and simple. The beans come from the earth. They are not man-made. We filter clean, fresh water through those beans and come up with the most beautiful, aromatic beverage that naturally energizes us, and is absolutely delicious in all its many forms – classic drip, espresso, cappuccino, latte, iced, and the list goes on.

I suppose if you drank 10 cups a day, that might not be a healthy choice. But moderation in everything is wise, right? And while coffee energizes the body and makes you feel sparky and good with a clear mind, it never clouds your thoughts and makes you do stupid things like say, alcohol or a multitude of recreational drugs. Coffee is a one-hit wonder. No side effects to worry about. And doctors say a few cups a day may actually help to stave off dementia. That’s a good thing, right? And in general, coffee gives you a feeling of joy (that aroma!) and well-being, and it is 100% legal and inexpensive.

So the next time someone tries to coffee-shame you, just remember my words. Coffee is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.

Losing Pumpkin

Posted on Posted in Cat Lovers, disease, euthanasia, God, Life, Motherhood, Parenthood, Pet Owners, Single Mom, Survival, UncategorizedLeave a comment

By Elizabeth Kate

I killed my cat. At least, that’s how it feels. Officially, Pumpkin was euthanized, after being diagnosed with terminal liver disease. But in spite of the diagnosis, he didn’t want to go. He was my faithful pet until the end. His spirit was strong, but his body was weak. Pumpkin fought death.

My dear cat was suffering. He hadn’t eaten in more than a week and couldn’t hold anything down. If he took more than a few sips of water, he started to vomit and dry heave. And of course, the only thing he wanted to do was drink. Pumpkin couldn’t understand why I would take away the water bowl after he took a few mouthfuls. He would sit patiently on the bathroom counter hoping I would turn on the faucet. It broke my heart to see him there. I wanted to give my poor baby water, but it always ended badly. Helping to quench his thirst made him sick all over again – a vicious circle.

We searched out a vet who could euthanize Pumpkin at home since he hated going to the vet. Pumpkin also hated his carrier. We had to lure him in with some sort of treat, but he would begin meowing indignantly once he realized he was locked in. He would get progressively louder as we made our way out to the car and was positively howling by the time we arrived at the vet’s office.

I didn’t want Punks to have such an experience on the day he would be put down – his death day, if you will. I wanted it to be quiet and peaceful, so he would just sort of float away, far from any pain or discomfort. This traveling vet seemed ideal, and her assistant patiently explained how the euthanasia was carried out. The animal would receive two injections. The first injection would put the animal into a gentle, twilight state, and the second would end their life. It sounded doable with the least amount of trauma. The price was high, but how can you put a price on something like that? I hired the vet.

She arrived the next morning and went over the process briefly. Before I knew it, the vet was giving Pumpkin a huge injection. I didn’t know she was going to do it right away. Maybe we would have a moment to say goodbye? But she got down to business without pause. It happened very quickly. Maybe she thought we might change our minds as my children and I were all clearly distraught.

I guess most animals are tranquilized immediately by this first shot, but not our Pumpkin. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The needle went in, and he screamed in pain! I was horrified. He struggled and scratched and bit, literally fighting for dear life to escape our grasp. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Now again, the vet had explained that the first shot “calms and soothes the animal and the final injection escorts them over the rainbow bridge.” No one said a thing about incredible fear, fighting, and clawing and struggling from us, trying to hide, to escape, to get away. It was awful. Pumpkin ran to the hallway door and was furiously reaching his paws under the door, desperately trying to escape Dr. Death. He was fighting madly for his life with every inch of his being.

I ran after him and held him down so he couldn’t escape into the other room. It felt so wrong to be doing this. What was happening? I was sickened by the way everything was unfolding and choking on my tears. My heart squeezed tightly in my chest. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Was it all an appalling mistake?

Pumpkin wasn’t ready to go. My baby wanted fiercely to live. He was so scared. I wanted to stop, to rewind, to end this trauma. To go back per se? Could I stop the death wish after that first shot? Was that the right choice? I didn’t know. The vet said she was shocked. That this had never happened before. She explained his spirit was still very strong – and that this was just an adrenaline rush – but I could barely hear her through my tears.

The twilight medicine started to kick in and Pumpkin must have felt a wave of vertigo. He struggled to get up, but his feet collapsed out from under him like a ragdoll. It was awful. Like he was suddenly inebriated and had lost control of his body. It must have been confusing and terrifying for him. And it was on me. My fault. I did this.

Pumpkin wasn’t ready to go but I ushed him out. I killed my cat. I didn’t do it by myself but instead hired an assassin to take him out while I watched. I helped. I aided and abetted the crime. He trusted me and I betrayed that. I hired the Grim Reaper to make a house call. I was there at the very moment that the final shot was administered. The vet put her stethoscope against his furry white chest and listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. She whispered softly, “He’s gone.”

Gone. Gone. So final. But what if I wanted him back? What if I realized there had been an grave mistake and Pumpkin was actually fine and didn’t need to be put down at all? Gone. Gone too soon. I wanted my cat back. But where did he go? Far away, away from all of us sobbing over his little wasted body. My children and I cried and cried but there was no bringing him back. Pumpkin had left the building. The vet went outside to give us some quiet time to mourn together.

Guilt weighed like lead in my chest. Grief washed over me like waves in the sea, each one more bitter and salty than the last. He’s just a cat for God’s sake. A stupid cat. But my cat. My friend. And he was gone. And nothing could be done.

But then, he wasn’t just a cat. He was a card-carrying member of the family. Always looked pissed off at the world. He gamely gave us friendly head butts and purred so loudly he sounded like a motorboat. Pumpkin could never could just walk into a room. He had to run in, full speed, and maybe crash into something along the way, like the character “Kramer” on “Seinfeld.” He was exceptionally feisty. If his brother was curled up a little too comfortably on the bed, he might come over and bite him on the neck and then take that nice, warm, newly vacated spot. He was a character to be sure.

Pumpkin has been gone a few weeks now. I’m holding it together. I make bad jokes to the kids about how we could have stuffed him and made him into a paperweight or maybe a cute hat or a single, fuzzy Ugg boot. I can’t talk about or think of him too much because people will think I’m a crazy cat lady. I’m not. Just a cat mom who lost her baby. And it hurts. I remember the look in his eyes. The fear. The confusion. Right till the very end, he didn’t want to go. He didn’t go peacefully into the night. He fought till the very end. And I pushed him over.

Will I ever get over the guilt? I don’t know. Does that make me insane? Maybe. But I miss how he used to meet me at the door like a little dog. I miss how he always slept on my stomach when I lay down for a nap. I miss that he was disgusted by the smell of perfume. He would actually make a terrible face like he couldn’t breathe. It was so funny. He would back away from me and run out of the room if I had on perfume or even just scented body lotion. He was a very sensitive feline.

My daughters used to tell me that Pumpkin would pout and act miserable until I came home from work. He missed me. I was his person. And now I miss him. My dear sweet guy. More than just a cat. A friend. A dear friend. So many memories. A lot of regret.

I wish it had ended differently. All I wanted was for my sweet guy to be released from his bodily pain. I know he is at peace now. I hope wherever he is, he can forgive me for that disaster of a death scene. It was never my intention to make him suffer. I hope he knows that. I love him. I always will. My heart belongs to that orange, furry boy who answered to the name of Pumpkin.

Wrestling With COVID

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You wonder where I’ve been – COVID! To the other side and back. And it’s truly as horrible as they say. I know I should be grateful for the two vaccines and one booster for making my symptoms so much more mild, but as I’m in the throes of it, I ask, mild? Really? My symptoms have been anything but mild. I squint at my keyboard as my eyes have become incredibly painful and light sensitive.

My bout with COVID hit me like a freight train. Headache and extreme exhaustion, chills, and actual teeth-rattling shivers. I went to bed and was awakened, blazing hot, with a 102-degree fever, body aches, and a headache that was impossible to fathom. I knew this was something bad. I’ve never been so blindsided by a flu. I took a COVID test and watched with horror as the truth was revealed – two lines. Positive! Oh shit. Those damn little spiky cells had somehow wormed their way into my body and were wreaking havoc. Shit shit shit.

What do you do if you have COVID? I didn’t even know. Suddenly it seemed everything I touched was full of those awful spiky bastards. It was kind of terrifying. How was I going to avoid giving this to my daughters? Or my cats? But there’s no one to take care of me, I realized. Such is the sad reality of being a single parent. Everything is manageable until you get sick and then – then – well, everything goes to hell. I’m so scared my daughters will get sick, but there’s nothing I can do to prevent their exposure except wear a mask and isolate as much as possible, as we live under the same roof.

So, COVID? What are the basics? First, I googled it, as we do. Rest, fluids, blah blah blah. That’s for a mild case. I called the doctor – a stroke of brilliance from my stormy mind. The headache has been unrelenting. The doctor put me on some new drug called Molnupiravir. It’s not yet approved by the FDA but I said let’s give it a try. My symptoms progressed as the first day wore on to include heavy chest and nasal congestion, a sore throat and cough. Crazy. Everything just snowballed upon me. And that headache! You know it’s bad when you’re lying in a pool of pain casually wondering if you might gain any relief from a hole drilled into your skull? That’s next to agony. But my 800 mg Ibuprofen tablets were doing little to relieve anything.

The doctor prescribed antibiotics and steroids to reduce the swelling in my bronchioles and to kill any secondary infections. I still feel sick. My joints hurt like they are arthritic, I’m coughing deep, heavy coughs, and my skin is incredibly sensitive to mere touch. I keep telling myself that this too shall pass, but it’s hard to believe when you are in the middle of it.

My friends have come to my rescue, texting and calling to cheer me up. One wonderful friend picked up my antibiotics and food for my daughters, and dropped them to my door. #Grateful. Yes, grateful, indeed. I find myself falling asleep and then waking at odd hours of the night. With the strange hours come deep thoughts that ring true: Actions speak louder than words. You can say whatever you want, talk is cheap. It’s what you do that matters. Friends who show up for you. Family who shows up for you. Whether it was calling to say hello or a sweet text wishing me speedy healing, each one mattered to me. It means something if they reach out and means something if they don’t. So many people have died from COVID. It’s not a stretch to call it ‘life-threatening’. It is, and that’s scary.

I, like so many, often struggle with the reason for us being on this earth, living this life. The vast ‘Why’s?’ never seem to have an answer. Is it a divine plan? Or a crazy mistake? Does our life here on earth mean something? Or nothing at all? Why are we here, mere specks of dust swirling in a vast universe of darkness and light? How did we all happen upon this life on the third rock from the sun? And why do we matter? We will never have the answers to these questions.

But it is true that the journey in this world is certainly more difficult for some than for others. And kindness seems to be the remedy for that. Compassion. Caring for each other. Because we are all walking different roads and sometimes a helping hand or even just a smile can lighten the load for another. Is that so hard to do? Be kind, and people will treat you with kindness. Or not! There are some difficult souls out there who will never see the light, but that doesn’t mean you should stop. Don’t become bitter. Be kind.

And have fun! We are a society that works too hard and spends too little time enjoying ourselves. We work ourselves into our graves, and what a waste that is. Take time to smell the roses. Quite literally. I make myself stop and smell beautiful flowers that I come upon. It’s these little joys that make up a patchwork of happy memories in your life and provide a soothing balm during the tough times.

Lastly, be with who you love. Don’t give up if you are in an unhappy relationship and assume that’s simply your path and your burden in life. It’s not. Get out! Make a change. Pursue happiness. You only get one shot at this life, why spend it with someone who doesn’t bring you joy? Don’t let the constraints of society dictate your bliss. Follow the light. Seek love and joy. Find the person that makes you laugh and makes your heart sing. They may be just around the corner. Seek them out! And try to find a splash of delight in all you do.

That’s all I’ve got for tonight. Stay healthy, my friends! And be happy.

Reflections on Motherhood: The Gift of Time

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My youngest daughter turned 16 not too long ago. Sweet 16! My goodness. Where does the time go? I looked away for a moment and my daughters grew up, like lanky sunflowers sprouting towards the blazing sun. How can she be 16? I remember being 16. Was it really that long ago? And where did my sweet little girls go, dressed in tulle and ballet slippers, clutching their expensive American Girl dolls? Time crashes by, like waves on the sand, washing away the fragile present and replacing it with an uncertain future. What will tomorrow bring? We don’t and can’t know. Such is the nature of life. Motherhood is always changing – indeed a role fraught with both deep joy and deep pain. Often, we don’t know one until we have experienced the other.

‘Mother.’ It’s a powerful title. Mothers have been celebrated since the beginning of time. In many cultures it is the mother figure, not the father, that rules the universe. The ancient Greeks celebrated Gaia, the mother of the mythological Greek Gods. It is the mother who brings forth life in the world – what could be more powerful than that? The mother represents strength and intelligence, but also gentleness and love.

The word ‘mother’ has easily worked its way into our vernacular. We refer to the earth as ‘Mother Earth’. ‘Mother Nature’ is the force controlling nature, the weather, and all living things. Your ‘mother tongue’ is the language you grew up speaking and your ‘motherland’ is the land of your birth. No one can deny the incredible influence mothers have had over the course of history in every country and civilization.

Motherhood means different things to different people. Your perception is molded by your life’s relationships and whether you are a mother yourself. Some women become mothers easily and never give it a second thought. Some must struggle to become mothers, chasing the dream of a child through doctors’ offices and adoption agencies. Still others have it thrust upon them unexpectedly. Regardless of its origins, motherhood is a journey that turns our lives upside down and makes us do and feel things we never expected.

Nothing can prepare you for the moment when a child is placed in your arms – the sudden rush of love and emotion and the awesomeness of the new responsibility in your life. All at once you can’t remember your life before this child arrived. You can’t envision a life without this little person. A once-freewheeling life grows more regimented, simply by necessity. The lights of the city pale next to the draw of the creature comforts of suburbia. Before you know it, you’re a minivan mom, navigating preschools and play dates, and each day of your life tumbles headlong into the next. Where does the time go?

When my children were still quite small, a friend with older children in college came to visit me. She remarked on the many paintings and clay sculptures that adorned the walls and surfaces of my home. I laughed and commented that there would “always be a constant stream of children’s artwork in my home.”

“Oh no,” she corrected me. “It does come to an end.”

I was taken aback for a moment, but my friend was right. My children would eventually grow up and stop giving me handmade creations and drawings. The adorable little misspelled notes would stop. The tooth fairy would end her nocturnal visits and Santa Claus would become a happy memory of years gone by. The very idea brought tears to my eyes. As exhausted as I was from the daily struggle of raising my young children, I loved every minute of it. Like all good things, I thoughtlessly assumed it would go on forever. But I was mistaken.

There’s a song by Luke Bryan called ‘Fast’, that speaks of how quickly life speeds by. “Sixty seconds now seem more like thirty,” he croons, as he sings about his desire to slow things down. The song strikes a chord with me. As we get older, the seasons start to pass with alarming momentum. As winter melts into spring, we can’t help but wonder where the time has gone.

Time seemed to pass at a snail’s pace when we were young and had our hopes and aspirations before us. We daydreamed about growing up and playing with the big kids. Our birthdays couldn’t arrive soon enough. There was always something in the future that beckoned to us until suddenly we were adults, and in a flash, the magic of childhood was gone.

Very often we are so wrapped up in the minutiae of life that we neglect to take note of our present moments. The sands of life gain momentum as they sneak through that hourglass. I don’t want them to slip away unnoticed.

On my birthday and over the holidays, my children often ask me, “Mom, what do you want? What do you need?” I am always stumped. Do I need anything? Not really. But this year, it occurred to me that there IS one thing I would like: the gift of time.

I’d like to take time with each of my children to look into their eyes and tell them I love them, always and forever. I’d like to hear their silly jokes over and over and have them write me funny notes. I’d like them to paint me a picture, scribble a poem, and sing me a song. I’d like to hear about their hopes and dreams. I’d like to wrap them in my arms and whisper in their ears and smell the sweet scent of their skin. I’d like to hold onto a little shred of time with them for just a moment longer, to enjoy the here and the now as fully as I can.

My advice to all mothers, old and young, is this: May you enjoy precious time with your children. Take it, grab it, hold onto it, and love it. Enjoy the present, for it is truly a gift.

Holidays, God, and Life

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Easter and Passover are on their way. Different holidays celebrating different things but since they’re at the same time each year, we kind of lump them together. I always liked the idea of Judaism. They have great food and great music. ‘Fiddler on The Roof’ is one of my favorite musicals. There’s celebratory dancing and chairs being raised. How fun is that? They have lots of holidays too. My Jewish friends always got to miss school for one holiday or another. The best was my friends who had one Jewish parent and one Christian parent. They got ALL the holidays off! I was deeply envious of that as a child.

Last year I was invited to a Yom Kippur dinner on a Thursday night. Scratch that. It was Thursday at sunset. Very specific. That’s rather magical, isn’t it? The event would start when the sun went down. And there I would be – hello shiksa! I was the lone non-Jew at the event except for Annie who’s married to David and took a class, but never actually converted. I think she’s Jewish by default. ‘Jew-ish’, as a friend of mine might say.

I am Catholic by birth but probably far too spiritual and liberal and artsy-fartsy to be considered a ‘good’ Catholic by many. But who cares? I think you figure out how religion and the universe can work for you by the time you’re in your 30’s or so. You stop feeling guilty all the time and start trying to live a good life and not be too selfish. Jewish guilt, Catholic guilt, they’re really the same – doing things for fear of the wrath of God being unleashed upon you. Or not. Who knows? We don’t.

I sometimes wonder if we going to have a big AHA moment when we die where everything will be made clear to us? Aha! So, God is an old guy with a long white beard. Or a woman with long white braids. Or maybe a Buddha with a rounded belly? Or possibly just nothing but stars and light? I always like to think of heaven as a great big cocktail party, F. Scott Fitzgerald style, with beautiful people in beautiful clothing drinking martinis and listening to wonderful music into eternity. How divine! I wonder, right?

Don’t you just want a little glimpse so you can let the others know – “Yeah, heaven really IS all that! But don’t steal or hurt or kill because the OTHER place is total hell.” And I hope there IS a hell. I do. Reserved for the horribles of the world who’ve done atrocious things on our earth – to women, children, animals, any life! I don’t care. It’s wrong and I don’t want them at my cocktail party. Fuck ‘em. Let them go straight to hell.

But now, here’s a question: What about the whole suicide thing? That’s a mortal sin in Catholicism, meaning that you don’t get the heaven card. But hold on. What about those good people who threw themselves off the World Trade Center on September 11, when it became clear they were not going to be saved from the blazing inferno? Straight to hell? Or not? Or the sad, sad people of the world who couldn’t face another morning on this earth? Straight to hell?

I think not. No. I can’t accept that. For whatever reason, I don’t think God would have rigid rules like that. My God is a sympathetic God, a compassionate God. A God who wants you to do your best and tosses you a bone every now and then if you’ve done good. A God who listens and cares. A God who understands and knows that this human experience is often terribly dark and difficult. Maybe not a God who delivers all your wishes tied up in a blue Tiffany Box but a kind God, nonetheless.

So, Yom Kippur. I was getting excited asking my Jewish friend if everyone was going to be discussing their thoughts about atonement and regret for different things in the past year. If there would be some sort of prayer for a better future for us all, in the hope that we can be better people in the days to come? Would it be like Thanksgiving at my house where everyone goes around saying what they’re thankful for?

His answer? “No. They don’t talk about any of that.” He mused that everyone would probably talk about the food – it’s pretty good stuff – nice after a long fast. And we would enjoy a good glass of wine, and everyone’s company. Yom Kippur is one of those big holidays where you visit relatives you don’t normally see. But my friend explained, there would not be so much talk. It figures the shiksa would want to talk.

Even without the talk, I was excited to go. For the evening, I was an honorary Jew. And in the end, it was lovely. I was thrilled to be included in the festivities and made to feel a part of the group. It was a celebration of life, and I’m all for that.

Shana Tovah! Happy Passover! Happy Easter!

Holding Out for Dawn

Posted on Posted in Addictions, adoption, adoptive mom, Alcoholism, fertility treatment, Motherhood, Parenthood, Single Mom, Survival, UncategorizedTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

By Elizabeth Kate

We recently celebrated Valentine’s Day – a holiday so often fraught with unnecessary pressures and stress. I try to avoid the anxiety and focus on the love, because isn’t that what it’s all about? I think so. I took a moment to write loving valentines not to a significant other, but to my children. Why? Because I adore these kids.

I spent many years of my life struggling to get pregnant and failing miserably. Trying to adopt and hitting a wall. It seemed I was destined to live life without ever playing the coveted role of ‘mother’ until my life transformed, and I became mommy to not one but TWO gorgeous baby girls. Miracles abounded.

Mommy. Such a magical word. One I thought I’d never hear whispered to me with sticky peanut butter and jelly kisses. But my dearest wish came true, and I was unceremoniously thrust into the world of parenthood. I welcomed it with open arms and have enjoyed every day of this crazy ride – the good and the bad – because the journey is one I never thought I’d take. The babies were children I thought would never be mine. So, I embraced the sleepless nights and all the madness that came with it.


I got divorced along the way and fought to keep my head above water during that more-than-two-year ordeal. My life has been colored by proximity to people struggling with addictions. Thankfully, I don’t mean my daughters. Dealing with addicts is never easy and through the years, the challenges have come at me fast and furious. But I survived.


We survive because there is no other choice. We survive because we must, because there are people depending upon us. We survive because this is our life, and we won’t get a second chance. The trick, however, is to not just survive, but to thrive. To find joy in the little things and not let yourself sink into self-pity. Because tomorrow is another day, and they say the night is always darkest just before dawn. I’m holding out for dawn.


The beautiful constant in my life has always been my love for my daughters, who are now 16, by the way. We’ll call them ‘Serena’ and ‘Alexandra’. It’s hard to imagine that I’m the mother to teenagers with all the crises and angst and sheer goofiness that comes with adolescence. But I am. And I love it, though our road together road is pitted with potholes and certainly never easy.


My girls and I like to watch old episodes of ‘The Gilmore Girls’ and laugh at Lorelai and Rory’s follies because so many of them echo our own. I’m mom to my daughters, first and foremost, but I’m also their friend and confidante. How lucky is that? And while I try to be a ‘cool mom’, sometimes I’m woefully uncool and wonder how we will ever make it through the drama of the day. But we do. Every time.

Someone once told me that if you don’t know how to pray or don’t have time to pray to God or to the Universe or to whatever you believe, it is enough to just say ‘Thank you.’ That resonates with me. ‘Thank you.’ So easy. I try to step through a life paved with gratitude, because there really is so much beauty – if only you would take the time to see it.

Thank you for reading this.
~ Elizabeth