I’ll be honest. I’m a weenie. Oh sure, I may seem like I have my act together, but if truth be told, there’s a valid reason I chose to not have children. Don’t get me wrong. I love, love, love kids. I love their pudgy little legs when they are just infants, and their Frankenstein gait when they are just learning to walk. I love their giggles and innocence when they are toddlers, and their curiosity about everything in the world as they get older.

So why didn’t I choose to have children myself, then? Well, let’s just say that the universe is a better place for my not having had kids. For one thing, as I alluded to earlier, I am an unadulterated weenie. I’m not a big fan of bumps, bruises, blood, needles, or anything else that children routinely experience while growing up. So, for example,  if my child ran into the house one day, screaming that he’d just fallen and skinned his knee, you can be darn sure that while my heart would be in the right place, my mind would be turning summersaults as I lovingly suggested that he run nextdoor to ask the neighbor to clean and bandage his knee.

In addition, I am utterly incapable of disciplining a pet, let alone a child. My heart is just too damn soft. I’d be the kind of mother that, if my child asked if he could play on the freeway, I’d reply: “Honey, look, I’d really rather you didn’t because it’s just too dangerous. But if you insist, then please be back by dark so that I won’t worry about you so much.”

Now what does all this have to do with pilling my beautiful little Himalayan rescue, Loki? Well, he has a virus, and I’m supposed to give him an antibiotic once a day for 10 days. After exhausting every conceivable way to give him the pill the last 5 days, I finally had to revert to doing it the only way that guarantees he’s getting it in his system — basically forcing it down his throat. Not a good experience. After trying it just once, I’ve decided that pilling is simply not for me. I was so traumatized that I’ll inevitably require therapy for the rest of my life.