Literally. It started sometime after mom died. I had the same dream two nights in a row (which is super unusual for me). I learned I was pregnant. I was with a good friend of mine who has four children. When I found out, I said, Well, the only person who would be really happy with this news is my mom and she’s dead.

I had that same dream again at the end of December, but this time, instead of making that statement about my mom, I was fretting that at 44, I was too old to get into this predicament. That it was too late for this to happen. (Again, I was with my friend who has four delightful children).

Just a couple of days ago, I had a dream that included several people I went to high school with. It was a sort of reunion dream and I saw a good friend of mine, someone I haven’t seen or talked to in years, and she had just had a late-in-life baby (unplanned after raising her other children). I felt terrified for her. I woke up and wrote the dream in my journal. I was also inspired to track that friend down, just because I enjoyed her so much in high school. We reconnected last night via email. (She has three children but no babies.)

I’ve never really wanted children. I think in the first part of my life, when I was a teenager, I viewed it as an inevitability. I found a journal entry where I wrote I definitely didn’t want to get pregnant before I was 19 (which was ancient). Then, as a young twenty-something, I was busy with college, and I was dating a guy I knew wasn’t the one, so children was not something on my mind. I remember going to the beach with that guy, his cousin and his cousin’s wife (all of us in our twenties), and the cousin talking about wanting children right away because he didn’t want to be an “old” parent. I thought the idea was lunacy.

After I moved to South Florida, I met the man who was The One. He already had a child from a previous marriage, so he wasn’t feeling any need for more. And I was still completely uninterested in the prospect for the most part.

I had the great luxury of not feeling any pressure from my parents either. I remember my dad saying to not have children for his sake, that he didn’t care if he had grandchildren. I think my mom was a bit more hopeful, but she never pressured me in any way. And my stepdad—who has had very difficult relationships with his sons (he is estranged from one)—thought I was the smartest person on earth to not want children.

I have two couples in my life that have relatively big families (each have four children). My cousins are one couple. They came to visit us when we lived in Springfield and I could see how delightful having children could be. Lots of activity and distraction. But by the end of the second day, after a morning of screaming and chasing one of our cats (who hid in the cabinetry in the laundry room), I was so grateful for the quiet that descended on the house after they left. I couldn’t imagine being surrounded by that level of activity all the time.

The other couple is one I’ve met since recently. The mom is just the most dynamic, charismatic woman. They have four children, all gorgeous perfection. On Instagram, they make parenthood look fun and easy breezy. Always out and about, always smiling, always surrounded by others. Of course, it’s a curated view, and the mom will write in a caption how shortly after this picture was taken, where everyone is smiling, one of the kids was having a meltdown in the hallway while the three year old was covering himself in poop in the bathroom.

And it’s this friend who has been in my dreams. I talked to my therapist about the dreams and that I didn’t feel like I suddenly wanted children. Like, I still feel solid in the decision to not have them, but to have so many dreams about it seemed strange. And she made the point that this could all be another way of mourning mom, this notion of a completed life where the opportunity for grandmotherhood is over (even if it wasn’t to be fulfilled in reality). She said it could also be a form of mourning for myself and my fertility…facing the aging process myself. Because the opportunity for me to be a mother—whether I want to or not—is closing. And even though I chose not to have them, the option was still there. Soon it won’t be at all.

I also think what I really want, when I think about what these families have, is the community they find (at least for local families in this small town). Having children builds in a community for you—a way to connect to total strangers and a reason to get out and participate in the world. A reason to meet other parents and become friends. When I look at what I want, I want a larger community. I don’t want to be a parent, but I want to find a community with the ease that parents can.    

Already the second part of George’s origin story blurs to history as he acclimates so well to the household. But this is what I remember:

Spence was not immediately on-board with bringing George home, and I understood why. I’m quite careful when adopting animals…when you have an already stable household of critters, adding a new one can throw things into chaos…not to mention the expense of vet care. And I didn’t want to badger Spence into adopting a new animal. I’ve been the animal pusher throughout our marriage—always excited to (carefully) add a new member to the household, while he is more reticent and skeptical. He always comes around, though, embracing the critters whole heartedly before too long. And he takes on much of the responsibility, even though I’m the one bringing all the animals home—since he works from home, he’s basically the doggy and guinea pig daycare, feeding, watering, and letting the dogs outside whenever they want. I couldn’t have this animal family without his help.

So I wasn’t going to try and convince him that we should take George back to Vermont. If he was truly adamant that George should stay in Georgia, that would be fine. It was definitely the easier option. At night, he told me all the reasons why it was a bad idea (I can’t remember them all now, but I know he was concerned about the dogs), and I countered some of his arguments, but I did not argue. I understood the concerns.

On Monday morning (we arrived on Saturday and I found George on Sunday), while sitting with Taylor at her dining table, we made plans for the day and she said, “If you guys aren’t going to take George, let me know because I have to figure out what to do with him. Maybe we can take him to a no-kill shelter in Tallahassee and see if they can take him.” I nodded my head and said, “Well, maybe that makes the most sense…seeing if the no-kill shelter can take him.” (And it really did make the most sense when you thought of the drive back we had ahead of us.) Spence was standing in the kitchen drinking coffee during this conversation and said, “I’m not totally against George coming to Vermont.” I looked at Taylor and smiled and she looked at me and winked and said, “Well, let me know for sure what you want to do.”

Of course, the door had opened and closed with Spence’s words and George had walked right through. Once he said he didn’t object, I knew I would bring George home.

It was difficult, the trip home. The first night in the hotel, George was crying and crying and crying in the bathroom (where we had placed him in case he had accidents) and even though Spence had said he didn’t object, it was becoming clear he was not exactly happy about the situation either. He was stressed and that night, when I asked him what his problem was since he had said he didn’t mind George coming with us, he said he had agreed primarily to make me happy and that he didn’t want anything to change with the dynamics at the house with the dogs. Then he reminded me that I had just committed myself to taking care of a cat for the next 17 years and what if he and the dogs didn’t get along. With all of that agitation off his chest and onto mine, he fell right to sleep and I lay next to him, stressing. 17 years is a long time. Maybe this was a bad idea, especially since George was crying all the time and pooping everywhere. It was gross.

During one of our stops on the return trip, we spent the day in D.C. and were at a museum when we heard an infant crying in the distance. “That sounds a lot like the kitten in our room last night,” Spence said, and he was exactly right. The semblance of baby crying to kitten crying was surprising and made me appreciate more those men and women who choose to parent. I couldn’t do it. I could barely deal with a kitten. (I realized, on that trip home, I had never had a baby animal of my own before. Jojo was the youngest animal I’d ever adopted and she was six months old. It was my mom who was always finding kittens and taking some in.)

And a lot of this was done with mom in mind. She LOVED cats––a total cat lady. When I texted my brother a photo of George and said I was taking him home, he texted back that mom would be proud of me. I actually prayed to mom for help during some of the more challenging times.

We finally made it back to Vermont and the dogs were bewildered by the small creature plodding in the hallway. George was utterly un-afraid of them from the start. And his attitude kept the dogs at bay. If they approached him too quickly, he would hold his ground and bristle. Slowly but surely they have acclimated. We all have. There were a few times after we got home that I considered taking George to the no-kill shelter in Bennington (that was always the backup plan…at least he would be in a state with more no-kill shelters to work with, and he was fucking cute as could be and would likely get adopted quickly). But when I mentioned it to Spence one night in bed, he said, “Are you crazy? George is part of the family now.” And those words filled my heart to bursting.

I saw a friend just today in the grocery store and she marveled at how well the dogs and cat were getting along. She said she sometimes considered getting a cat rather than a second dog, but her dog always went nuts when he saw cats outside. I told her Jojo did, too, and that I knew if I adopted another cat, it would have to be one that wouldn’t run in fear because Jojo would chase it (she did this to our cat Bailey). I hadn’t expected to adopt a cat at all because it would be too difficult to anticipate how one would react to the dogs. And then I found George and he has fit in perfectly. “Somehow they find you,” she said. And it does feel like a bit of divine intervention…finding a tiny creature outside my friend’s home in Georgia…my mom’s favorite animal…and having him fit in so beautifully in my household of animals 1200 miles away.

One of my favorite memories of mom was one day when we were driving home from shopping in Zanesville, Ohio. During this visit she had been trying to tell me about this song by this artist whose name she couldn’t remember, but she was sure I’d probably heard the song because it was so popular. Well, on that drive home, Andy Grammar’s Honey, I’m Good came on the radio and she said, This is the song! And she proceeded to dance in her car seat for the entire song and I laughed and laughed and laughed. I had never heard the song before then and I probably could have gone without it, but thanks to that moment, I love that song.

A few weeks ago, Elizabeth Gilbert, on her Instagram, encouraged every one to dance more, every day. She made the point that no music is necessarily needed—you just need to move your body. I’ve been trying to do that…shuffling around the kitchen while I’m making breakfast. Twisting around the living area as I play with George.

I’m on the board of a domestic violence prevention group and on Saturday we held a line dancing fundraiser. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of line dancing. I’d rather just dance. All my friends I mentioned it to said the same thing––line dancing was not their jam. Even one of the board members, whom I met for the first time that night, said she loves dancing, but line dancing not so much. Well, friends, I had a great time line dancing! Heidi (a new board member) and I danced the entire night and it was a ball. It was a decent turnout for a small town and most people were up dancing. It was great.

And tonight, I got home from work, ate dinner (which consisted of too much bread) and knew I hadn’t moved enough. My Fitbit told me as much. “I’m going to go in the bedroom and dance,” I told Spence. So George and I went to the bedroom, and I danced until my Fitbit told me I had hit my “active minutes” goal. And then I ended by dancing to Andy Grammar’s Honey, I’m Good in honor of mom.

We arrived at Taylor and Art’s incredible barnhouse on late Saturday afternoon. There was more activity than I expected, even though I knew Mule Day took place that day. I thought it would have been wrapped up by the time we arrived, but there were still people lingering, event signs were up, cars were lined up on their way out of the small Georgia town. The event website says that this small town has a population of 200 (!!) but it swells to over 30,000 on the day of the event, which celebrates the mules’ contribution to agriculture with a parade, contests, entertainment, vendors and more, with money going to the Lions Club for charity.

A lot of the event takes place right across the street from Taylor’s home, in a large open field. She said the area is typically quiet, but we arrived on one of the busiest days of the year.

The next morning, after a shower, I left Spence in the guestroom and walked outside to feel the cool air and to take a stroll around the front of the property in day light. Once outdoors, I meandered through the front yard, toward the road where Taylor’s property is fenced. I was trying to see if anything was still happening in the field across the street (I had heard horse/mule neighing that morning and I knew Taylor’s neighbors were going to offer mule rides later that morning).  

As I approached the fence, I heard a MaMaMaMaMaMa—over and over, quick and staccato. I didn’t recognize the sound, and as I approached the spot from where it emanated—at the front of the property, right next to the fence—it stopped. I stood still for a moment and soon the sound started again, but this time a bit more clearly, and I could tell it was a cat.

The property has trees in the front and it was clear the cry was coming from the tree. I looked and looked and didn’t see anything. There appeared to be a hole in the base of the tree and I wondered if a cat was stuck inside. The crying would stop and start and I simply couldn’t locate where it was coming from.

Around this time, Taylor joined me in the yard. “I think I hear a cat,” I told her as she approached. “Oh, no,” she said. She and her husband Art have had to deal with a few stray and/or mistreated animals since they’ve moved to the area. They now have a cat who lives on the property that was found as a stray kitten. As an animal lover, it is hard for her to figure out what to do with stray kittens since Georgia doesn’t have no-kill shelter options. I told Taylor I couldn’t figure out the location of the critter. We stood for a few moments and heard nothing. Just as Taylor suggested we go ahead and start the tour of the property and come back to this spot later, the cry started again.

We both walked around the tree again, searching, and we were joined be Art who was filled in on the situation. Taylor then spotted the culprit—a tiny kitten, snuggled in tight to the base of the tree, not moving. We thought he was stuck between branches. Taylor went inside to get gloves and a towel. When she returned, she climbed over the fence—with help from Art—moved the branches, and picked up the kitten. He wasn’t stuck after all—he just didn’t want to move. It had been quite cold the night before and he was shivering.

She wrapped him in a blanket and handed him to me so she could climb back over the fence and into her yard. And as I held him in the blanket, heart emojis started floating around my head. Spence joined us, just missing all the excitement, but in time to see the heart emojis floating around me and the kitten.  

I carried him around the property as Taylor gave us a tour, and when we returned to the house, Taylor gave him some wet cat food which he devoured. We set up a kennel in the yard with a cat bed that Taylor’s stray cat (Barnabus) had totally ignored, but that George (named after his home state) climbed right into and settled down in.

So George was safer than he had been when we first found him. And he was teeny-tiny. Maybe five- or six-weeks-old, we guessed. Now the question became: what happens to George now?

Coming soon: Part Two—the bargaining, the second thoughts, the traveling, the regret, the fuzziness, the happiness.

I split one outfit between the two small geese so they are all dressed to some degree.

One of the geese is always naked.

I thought I had taken all of the clothes mom had collected or made for her decorative lawn geese. They were quite a focus of hers for a long time—she handmade their outfits. Once I took her to the home of an elderly lady whose hobby/income was making clothes for lawn geese. I didn’t know such a person existed and she and mom had a great time comparing notes. Mom left with two outfits that day.

Now that I have the geese, and now that I’m trying to remember to dress them for the various holidays and seasons in memory of mom—one more way to keep her spirit with me—I’m realizing how much creativity and effort went into these pieces. It makes me wish I worked with my hands, learned how to sew. I know that I can still learn and should, and maybe I will, but it’s easier to say than to find time to actually do. But I should find the time.

And even though our hall closet is filled with outfits—many designed for spring and summertime, with flower designs and sun hats, I know that she had a Halloween costume of a witch that I’m missing. And I think she made a pumpkin, too. I’m pretty sure Santa was included in the wardrobe and these are pieces I do not have.

Somewhere along the way she adopted a third goose, another small one. At her request, during two separate visits, I had painted the other two geese, transforming them from gray cement to the more believable versions with yellow bills and webbed feet. I don’t know when the third one joined the family, but I did not get the chance to paint him for mom. He (she?) is also the one missing the most clothes. While most of the outfits were made for the big goose, when she took on the smaller goose, mom made many matching outfits. This third goose, unpainted and naked most of the time, is like the “red-headed stepchild” of the trio. But I’m sure he had clothes when he was at mom’s house. She wouldn’t have let him on the porch with the others without proper dressing.

The other day, I had a dream during an afternoon nap. While I cannot recall the actions of the dream, I know it included some form of mom and dad, I know that they had died, and the dream left me feeling existentially lonely to my very marrow. It’s a feeling—an awareness—I would not be able to carry constantly in my waking days…it would be too difficult (I have some experience with that that I’ve written about before). Gratefully, I awoke from my nap and that desperate despair dissipated like fog.

But what to do about a naked goose—that beloved physical object that ties me to my mom’s memory and creativity. I suppose they will never be as coordinated as they once were.