A little back story to this long post: I was seven when I first experienced a baby. I vividly remember sitting at our kitchen table with my mom, sister and brother when we were told the news: my brother and his girlfriend were having a baby. The mood was somber in that kitchen; after all, my brother was only 17 and would need to drop out of school and start working to take care of his child, but all I could think of was the excitement of being an aunt. “I’m going to be an aunt! At seven! This has to be a record!” I remember thinking.
My brother and now sister-in-law lived with us at the time, and it was clear that my mom was not going to let them leave until they could take care of themselves. Mama is like that; when the rest of the family was telling her to kick my brother out for his “mistake”, she told them all to go eff themselves because “he needs me now more than he has ever needed me or ever will need me”. She’s just great like that.
Before Tate and I had our furbabies, I would always get so frustrated with people who called their animals “kids”. It just felt so ridiculous. I may not have real kids, but I have been around my niece and nephew constantly since they were born, so I know what the difference is, and it’s everything. But then I got animals, and I slowly started to realize that I was being super judgmental and that those people were sorta right. Having animals is, in it’s own way, like having kids.
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