The kittens are not kittens anymore; they are small cats.
Small, mostly horrible, cats.
I have time-for-love with Rocket, every morning around 4 am. Love makes him drool, and he dabs his saliva snoot all over my sleeping face.
Luna hollers at me until I pick her up and carry her around. Many mornings, I am putting on mascara while holding a cat on my shoulder.
They fight in the bathtub and try to climb up the shower curtains. They jump on the counters and knock things off onto the floor. All of the houseplants have been exiled to the outside world, in order to save them from untimely cat-induced deaths. One of them likes to hold her ass over the edge and poop outside of the litter box.
But I love them like crazy. Leaving them every morning to go to work is gut wrenching. I leaked a few tears when I had to say goodbye to them when we left for vacation. It is a love bigger than previous cat-loves.
I have a hypothesis that the cats are playing the role of “baby” that is ubiquitous in my social set these days, and that may have something to do with the extra love. They’re making me feel like I might not be as ambivalent about babies as I might have thought. The crazy-love is rather fun.