My first grandbaby

I just realized yesterday that I have my first grandbaby.

And she’s a cat.

My daughter Rachel is definitely feeling maternal. Occasionally she’ll suddenly yell, “Beeeeeeee!” We all jump out of our skins. It’s odd, though; the tone of voice she uses to speak to Cleo the horrible kitten sounds as if she either has a very bad cold or is a close relative of Borat. When Cleo is really being cute, she starts speaking faster and faster, higher and higher, until she approaches supersonic. I’m pretty sure my eardrums have bled a few times. But it is so sweet seeing how much she and the horrible kitten love each other. I peek in Rachel’s room in the morning and Cleo is curled up in bed in the curve of Rachel’s stomach, or snoozing in Rachel’s lap as Rachel studies. It’s so sweet. Until the little terror wakes up.

And then there’s me. I admit, I went from wanting more kids to wanting grandkids overnight. Done with one, ready for another. But none of my kids were of an age to produce grandchildren, and I really wasn’t ready either. I’ve seen “Teen Mom” — not ready to be such a hands-on grandma.

So the kitten is a nice baby-filler.

When I was pregnant with Nick, my daughter Sheri, then two years old, was convinced she was also pregnant. With kittens. Five of them. She thought she had a nice, cozy bed inside of her for the kittens to sleep in. Along with dressers, lamps, a couch and a kitchen table. I think she even had a stove and frig in there so they could eat. So maybe this love of horrible kittens is genetic.